


The Prince of Chaos

by Chiauve



Series: The Hammer and the Forge [1]
Category: Thor (2011)
Genre: AU, Angst, C-PTSD, Child Abuse, Community: norsekink, Fluff, Gen, I'm serious about the angst, More angst, Mpreg, Slow Build, kid!Thor, world building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-03 12:12:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/381223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiauve/pseuds/Chiauve
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the war between the Aesir and Jotunheim, Loki Laufeyson finds a way to escape his hellish life by siding with Asgard and watching his realm fall. Odin brings him back to Asgard and names him his blood-brother. Thor, Odin's young son, develops a sense of hero worship for the newcomer and follows him everywhere. Loki can't shake him off.</p>
<p>As Loki adjusts to a new world and way of life, he comes to realize that the way to power could very well be through this annoying Asgardian prince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brothers in War

**Author's Note:**

> From [this prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/3231.html?thread=5611679#t5611679) at the Thor kinkmeme.
> 
> What started out as a 'through the years' fic quickly turned into a monster and ran away with itself. While I'm posting this at the meme as one large chunk divided into three parts, I'm splitting it into three stories in one series here, length being one reason (and that the character list above would be insane).
> 
> The main reason is that overall this series is Thor/Loki, but this part is not. There are some pairings, but they are not the focus of the story so I consider this part gen. If Thor/Loki isn't your thing, you're good to go, but I wouldn't recommend reading on when the rest of the series is up. Unfortunately, as the story is getting broken up, that makes the plot of this part a bit all over the place since it's the build-up for the next two parts. 
> 
> Lastly, this fic is a combination of the film, mythology, some comic influence, and the rest is made up. I also purposefully butcher some well-known myths, too. 
> 
> I'm done now. I hope you enjoy the fic!

In the game of garnering power, it was wise to start small and test the resolve of rivals. Thus Laufey set his eyes on Midgard, with its nigh defenseless people, and planned its domination. This would attract the attention of Asgard and possibly plunge them into a war for which they were truly not prepared; a foolhardy move.

Loki Laufeyson said as much, and loudly, before his father's court.

Laufey had him beaten into silence.

So the sons of Jotunheim invaded Midgard and, as expected, the hosts of Asgard came in brilliant flashes of color. The battles were bloody and mortals quaked from afar, certain the world was ending. The Jotnar were stronger than the Aesir in brute strength, but the soldiers of Asgard were better trained, fighting as a unit as well as in melee as necessary. The Frost Giants were holding their own, but Loki knew it was only a matter of time before his people were beaten, and both would suffer severe losses in the meantime.

It was with ease he snuck into the camp of the Aesir. A cloak and his small size would bring no suspicion, and he was within sight of their king's tent before he allowed himself to be captured. The guards took him where he needed to go, and soon he was standing before Odin All-Father himself.

Loki had heard that the Aesir did not age, thus it was a testament to Odin's longevity that he looked an old man. Yet he radiated a power that left even Loki speechless for a brief time. In the face of such power, it was wise to remain polite, and he tried to bow as best he could when held between two guards.

Odin knew his visitor could be none other than the eldest son of his enemy, his small stature was proof enough, for who hadn't heard of Laufey's shameful runt? Looking at him now, Odin suspected there was more to it than that. Loki was not merely a small Jotunn. The planes of his face were softer, his stance more graceful, and there was dark hair upon his head. In the veins of Loki flowed more than Giants' blood, though Odin could not discern what at that moment.

It did not matter; Loki was the son of a king and would be heard.

Recovering his wits, Loki made use of his silver tongue, honed from a lifetime of surviving among those stronger than himself. He entreated Odin to understand his people and their desire to expand beyond their own realm, much as the Aesir, Vanir, and even Alfar had done. It was hardly the fault of the Jotnar that they required certain environmental needs for their colonies. Surely an agreement could be made, as Midgard was vast and the mortals few in number this far north.

Over the course of a day and a night Odin and Loki drew up an agreement, though it was hardly smooth in the making. More than once, Loki lashed out with his sharp tongue and Odin returned it with a strike from his spear. The Jotnar could establish their colonies on Midgard without interference from Asgard, so long as they remained far from the humans and brought them no harm. To this Odin agreed and left his mark upon the parchment on which their agreement had been written. Loki would take it back to his father and if Laufey agreed he would leave his mark in turn before returning it to Odin.

So Loki returned to the temporary fortress of ice and stone where Laufey dwell and presented his king the parchment. Seeing only benefit in it, Laufey left his mark upon the agreement and had a messenger return it to Odin, ending the war.

Laufey had Loki strung up outside the fortress to be gnawed upon by wolves for a full turn of the moon.

 

Peace could only last so long. Satisfied with his numbers and the power of the Casket of Ancient Winters at his fingertips, Laufey advanced through Midgard. Again the Aesir came and the war was waged anew.

Loki cursed his father and the Aesir both before departing Laufey's court and finding his way into Odin's presence once more.

"It is too late for treaties, this time," Odin said to him in the warmth of his tent.

"Dragging out this war is pointless for both sides. It must end." His brother Byleistr had been lost in the confrontation mere hours before.

Odin was resigned, but stood firm. "We must protect Midgard."

" _Damn_ Midgard!" Loki yelled, "You must strike at the very heart of Jotunheim! Laufey will have no choice but to return, and there you shall cripple him."

Odin regarded the young prince, his blue eyes as hard as the ice he now battled. "It is not easy to trust one so willing to betray his people. What do you take me for?"

"I do this _for_ my people!" Loki cried, desperation in his voice. Swift as a serpent, he lashed out his hand and, quicker than Odin could draw his blade, grasped the bare skin of the All-Father's arm. He watched as the marked blue of Loki's own visage was swept away, like sand blowing over stones of a beach, and replaced by smooth, pale flesh. No more did a Jotunn stand before him, but an As like himself.

Slowly, his now green eyes wary, Loki lowered himself to one knee before the All-Father. "And in doing so, I can never return to them."

So the battle turned to Jotunheim. Odin led his forces, crashing down upon the planet's surface via the Bifrost, while Loki guided small contingents through the pathways between the realms, flanking Laufey's warriors and leading them into the citadel itself.

The war ended swiftly then, with Odin now One Eye casting down Laufey who had no choice but surrender. The Aesir would take the source of the Frost Giants' power, the Casket. There was no stopping them, but Laufey could take small satisfaction in the fact that no Asgardian could touch it without harm. Thus he was dumbfounded when one of Odin's warriors, a horned helm upon his head, carried forth the Casket as if it were nothing and presented it to Odin.

And Laufey screamed in rage when he recognized this soldier as his eldest son in the guise and armor of the Aesir.

Still bleeding, the surviving warriors collected their dead and departed the fallen city of the Jotnar, gathering where the Bifrost would take them home. Riding beside Odin was Loki, the Casket of Ancient Winters clutched in his hands. As the multicolored beam of the Bifrost descended, he turned for one final look at his ruined homeworld.

Try as he might, he regret nothing.

 

The citizens of Asgard crowded the streets in never-ending throngs as the victorious soldiers of Odin their King marched from the Bifrost, deafening them with cheers louder than the screams of battle. Thor stood in the golden hall, straining against his mother's hands and waiting for their approach, wanting nothing more than to run out and meet his father. He couldn't believe how far the bridge was from Gladsheim and how slow they were moving and why it was taking _so long!_

After an eternity the All-Father arrived in his hall to the cheers of the most prominent lords and ladies of his realm, followed closely by his generals and most noted warriors. Ascending to his golden thrown, he faced his family, and Thor could hold back no more. He dashed into his father's waiting arm, hugging him fiercely and fighting back the tears. He was too big to cry. Odin returned the sentiment and quickly gave his beloved son a kiss on his forehead before standing to his full height, his spear Gungnir held above his head in victory. Again, the assembled Asgardians cheered their king and heroes.

Odin raised his free hand and the hall grew quiet. He spoke, his voice carried beyond the walls of the hall itself, of their victory, of the courage and valor of his soldiers. His generals and most prominent warriors knelt before him and he spoke of them in turn. Thor was familiar with them all, and noted those who were missing. He was sad and yet also gladdened, knowing that those brave Aesir had been carried in glory by the Valkyrjur to Valhalla.

One of the warriors kneeling before his father was unfamiliar to Thor. He was not merely a soldier risen in the ranks nor being praised for heroics, Thor did not recognize him at all. Even more strangely, he did not look like any other soldier Thor had seen. He was slighter in build, nearly dwarfed by Tyr kneeling beside him, his face young with a soft jaw line. And yet he wore his golden armor as proudly as any of the generals, the great horns of his helm setting him apart.

Entranced by this strange soldier, Thor missed most of his father's speech, until Odin stepped forward, gesturing for the newcomer to rise. It was then Thor realized in shock that the warrior carried no noticeable weapon. How could he have gone into battle in such a way?

"...due to the personal sacrifice of Loki that we are victorious..."

Thor made a face. What kind of name was Loki? It was no more familiar than the warrior's face. Maybe he had come from one of the other realms. His train of thought slammed to a halt as Odin bade Loki to stand beside him and clasped their untreated, bloody hands together, mingling their blood. Thor gasped; he knew the meaning of that gesture all too well.

Facing the crowds, Odin raised his and Loki's still clasped hands for all of Asgard to see.

"Let it be known that Loki is a brother of Odin forevermore!"

There was the slightest hesitation before those gathered erupted in cheers. Thor only stared at the mysterious soldier from far away. He was very young, but he knew that this was not and honor bestowed lightly. The warrior Loki knew this as well, judging by the look of shock he was trying to cover.

Whoever he was, Loki had earned the highest honor among the Aesir. He had garnered not only the favor of the All-Father, but his trust and admiration as well.

And Thor, unable to look away from this golden warrior, felt nothing but _awe_.


	2. A Foreign Hero

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm not sure of Thor's exact age, he's a little younger here than he's portrayed in the beginning of the film.

The war between Asgard and Jotunheim was recent in ending, its memory still fresh in the mind of its populace. Yet to a child, the days of war were long passed, leaving a nostalgia for glory never experienced. Thor practically danced beside his father in excitement as Odin led him into the vault for the first time, reciting the wars fought that had brought these treasures into Asgard. Most prized of these was the Casket of Ancient Winters, pulsing cold and beautiful upon its pedestal. Thor smiled as his father spoke of the war. The Frost Giants were a true threat, one he remembered, though vaguely, and he dreamed of facing them himself and said so.

"When I'm king, I'll hunt the monsters down and slay them all!"

Odin regarded his son a long moment. Thor was but a boy and heard not the burden and consequences of war, but only the glory to be had.

"Why would you do this, Thor?" It was an honest question.

Thor was taken aback. "Because they are evil, aren't they?"

"No, they are a people not that different from we," Odin said, placing his hand on Thor's shoulder and guiding him out of the vault. "It is only the ambition of Laufey you know. But it is the actions of a cruel king that often defines his kingdom, and in the end the people are the ones who pay for it." He squeezed his son's shoulder, hoping he understood the message.

"And surely," he continued, "you do not think Loki a monster?" Odin was well aware of the hero-worship Thor seemed to have developed towards the Jotun prince and decided to use it to his advantage. When Thor turned quizzical eyes up to his father, Odin explained, "He is a Jotunn and Laufey's son. I have kept this knowledge to but a few as the wounds of war are still healing for many and it may bring him harm."

"But…" Thor stammered, "he's…he's not _blue!_ "

The All-Father chuckled and took Thor's still-small hand in his own, "He is a shape-shifter, my son. It is as simple as breathing for one of his ilk."

Thor was silent, clinging to his father's hand as they ascended back into the palace. Surely this was a cruel joke, how could the man Thor had come to admire, that magnificent warrior returned bloody from battle, possibly be one of their worst enemies?

 

"Tell me it's not true!"

Loki, reclining comfortably upon a couch in Gladsheim's opulent library, glanced over his book to find a red-faced Thor staring at him in challenge. He glanced around the room, looking for the explanation of this outburst. While he found the occasional non-sequitur one of the simplest forms of amusement, this was a bit much.

"It's not true," he replied with no inflection and returned to his book. He didn't have to tell people he was lying to them, they usually figured it out on their own. Amazing that the Aesir prince found a much more efficient method to do so and probably spared himself a day of anguish. Good for him.

It would be more impressive if he could recall what he had apparently told the boy.

Ever since he had taken up residence in the palace he noticed the As prince following him with increasing frequency. From a distance at first and watching Loki from the corner of his eye, but as his boldness grew the space between them suffered for it. Within a few days Loki had developed a blond-haired shadow and a few days after that Thor walked beside him proudly.

_Everywhere._

Loki had developed his simulacra for life and death situations, but now he found they worked especially well at distracting the prince. Today he took a respite from this method as he'd thought that Odin would be entertaining his progeny for the day. Clearly he'd erred.

The boy wasn't so bad. He spent most of his time with Loki trying to emulate him and it was flattering. The truth was that Loki simply didn't know what to do with children. Jotunn offspring remained underground with their mothers and did not interact with the men. Loki had been shocked to see children running freely among the adults in Asgard.

"Tell me you're not a Jotunn! You _can't_ be!"

Ah, was that what this was about? Sighing, Loki sat up and set his book aside, facing Thor. There would be no more reading, tonight.

"I cannot be?" There was something in Loki's voice that made Thor want to take a step back, but he was Odin's son and held his ground. "Why is that, pray tell?"

Thor gaped at the question and struggled to answer. "Because…because your not, you know, _big_."

Astute, this one. "My mother was not of the Jotnar, I am only half giant."

Thor couldn't imagine anyone but another giant interested in villainous Laufey. His face clearly said as much before he was able to school it and Loki chuckled.

"Laufey took my mother from her realm. For her safety, she overstated her station among her people. The King saw advantage and cemented his claim on her with my birth, but the Svartalfar had no interest in making war over a lady of no prominence. Needless to say, Laufey was…displeased."

He winced at the memory. On the other hand, it had been Laufey's presentation of Loki to the Svartalfar that had established him as the king's legitimate son and heir, an act that saved his life. At least until his half-brothers came along, in which Loki had to be much more careful.

Thor still looked doubtful, so Loki held up his hand to the boy. As though the very heat from his body was being leeched away, the pale skin receded and was replaced by marked and calloused blue with fingernails black as pitch.

It was as though something within Thor deflated and he seemed to shrink into himself. It was true, Loki, his _hero_ , was a Frost Giant, one of those who had made war upon his father and slain his kin. He couldn't hold back the sniffle.

"By Ymir's floating brains…" Loki muttered as he realized what this was _really_ all about. He took a moment to resettle himself, eyeing Thor and those brimming blue eyes suspiciously. His children never cried, but then again he didn't think they had tear ducts.

"Listen well. Whoever you think I am, whatever great Asgardian aspiration you have projected on me, I tell you I am not he. Everything I did that you think so highly of, I did for myself."

Thor stared, comparing Loki's words with all he had been told. "You wanted to end the war."

"I did. I love Jotunheim, it is my home, but I have no future there. I saw an opportunity for change, maybe escape, and I took it. I am no hero, I am a survivor, and a survivor will never be the vessel of your ideals."

"My father honored you, made you his brother…"

"We both have much to gain from each other. Oh, I respect your father, but don't believe our relationship is anything but political." Loki slumped back into the couch, his still-blue hand massaging his temple. Children! How they always wore him out. "You are still young, but you will understand someday, my son."

Thor stiffened. "I am not your son." Confusion swirled about his head like a physical thing. First Loki tells him such things and then claims Thor his son? Madness! But then, he had overheard Loki call Odin 'my father' once or twice.

Loki sighed and shut his eyes. "I forget how literal you Aesir are. Among my people we refer to those younger than ourselves as our sons, those elder or of higher station as our fathers. It's a sign of respect."

"Why?" Thor asked, and Loki felt the couch dip slightly as the boy sat.

"We are not like you, breeding as you please throughout the year. Liken us to wolves if you will, who have a season for conception and another for birth. Our females are only receptive to us for a short time once a year and our children are born together. These children of a season are all brothers and sisters."

And how Loki had hated his. His brothers had taken to chasing him and pulling out his hair, sending him back to his mother with a bloody scalp. As a man, he'd painfully taught his half-brother Helblindi to honor him properly when he'd dared call Loki 'brother,' as though they were equals.

Loki Laufeyson had no equal.

"While a man may be present at his offspring's birth to ensure his line continues, that child is soon lost among a multitude in the underground tunnels and he will not know them. All children are our sons and daughters. The children themselves do not know their sire and so all adult males are their fathers. That is how it has been since before my time."

"But you are Laufey's son!" Thor cried, and Loki jumped; he'd nearly forgotten the boy was there.

"The royal line is the exception, of course. Laufey named and knew me, and I named and knew my offspring."

"You have children?"

"Oh yes," Loki couldn't help smile but a little, until he noticed Thor was now leaning quite close to him. So much for the big bad Jotunn fears from before. Loki shifted away.

Thor didn't seem to notice. His fair brow was scrunched in thought, and when he looked at Loki again there was sorrow in his eyes and he leaned the entirety of his torso against the Jotunn, attempting comfort.

"That means you left them behind. You won't see them again." Thor knew he could lose his father to war, he had been told time and time again by his mother to prepare for such a thing. But he could not, and he knew he could not bear the loss of his father or mother. If Odin had died in battle, Thor would celebrate his death with pride, but all the while wondering if, in Valhalla, his father missed him, too. Just the thought alone made him shiver and he wrapped his arms around Loki.

Loki stiffened as the prince's arms locked about his waist and his own raised helplessly in the air. He wanted to shove the boy away, but decided against it. Much as he was loathe to admit it, at this point in their tenuous relationship the All-Father had Loki at a disadvantage. He could not return to his homeworld, he knew too little of the realms to find his own way safely, and he doubted he would received a warm welcome from his mother's people. He could not risk Odin's ire by injuring his son. He let his arms drop and sat there awkwardly as Thor hugged him.

"Do not speak of things you don't understand," he murmured. His children had been lost to him long before the war.

Loki began grinding his teeth by the time Thor released his surprisingly strong grip and sat up on his own. Not daring to risk another bizarre assault, Loki stood and made to leave, fully intending instead to simply hide out elsewhere in the library until Thor went away. Embarrassing, yes, but not so much so as having Odin's blue-eyed babe hanging off him in public. He'd put out a simulacrum tomorrow. Unless…

If he were to deter the boy from this foolish manner of thinking entirely, he would be free to pursue his interests and spread out into his general boredom-inspired mischief. The sad fact was that, at present, he had no purpose. He'd escaped from Laufey's hand and ensconced himself into this pretty realm and now needed to form plans anew. Quite difficult with his host's darling heir always at his heels.

"Think on what I have told you, my son, about who I am and who you wish me to be. I am a Jotunn, the son of your enemy. There is nothing of your ideals about me." With that, he turned and exited through the large doors of the library before teleporting himself on top of a bookshelf to wait. He suffered many accusations of being unmanly due to his magic, but he scoffed at the idea. Why should women have all the fun? He was better at it anyway. Though whether this was due to lack of ambition on their parts or something inherent within the sexes was an answer in which he was very invested. He had been reading up on the subject when Thor arrived.

The prince sat on the couch for a few long minutes, pondering, before he finally got up and left the library, his usual exuberance missing. Loki took this as a sign that Thor was taking his words seriously and climbed down the bookshelves in relief. He dropped down and startled the librarian, who scold him and chased him out, insisting that if he was going to jump around, he could very damned well do it on the training grounds.

Definitely no more reading, tonight.

 

Unfortunately for Loki, by the time Thor had been collected by his caretakers and sent to bed, he'd arrived at an entirely different conclusion. Loki was a Jotunn, one of their hated enemies, and yet this fact no longer sullied him in Thor's mind, but exalted him.

Were not some of the greatest heroic tales Thor knew about those who had turned against their own for the sake of what was right? There was no greater courage. More than that, an Aesir warrior grew up knowing what was good and right, that was the duty of every Asgardian to uphold. Loki did not have this chance. He'd grown up among the evil Frost Giants, and yet still had known what was right in his heart when the time came.

Clearly, Thor thought, what Loki had told him about being self-serving was a result of his upbringing. Jotnar were not known for their noble acts; perhaps a part of Loki was ashamed or thought himself unworthy? Maybe he wasn't even consciously aware of his own nobility?

Well, Thor could help him with that! And as a future warrior of Asgard, he could do no less than learn all he could from Loki, whose courage and (possibly subconscious) moral compass surpassed all others. For surely Odin would not honor anything less in the way he had.

He'd start tomorrow.

 

Loki, who had retired to his quarters and sat watching the fire, suddenly felt the cold trickle of dread run down his spine.


	3. The Sorcerer of Jotunheim

Loki always considered himself clever. He learned young to take bad situations and turn them in his favor with scheming and oft times subtle but outrageous plans. He was secure enough in his own cleverness that he had no problem giving credit where it was due in the rare case he did rely on someone else's idea. Granted, the only person for whom he'd ever done so was his mother.

A mother's most important duty to her child was to teach him to hunt the giant subterranean worms that was the staple of the women and children's diet. Loki's mother was incapable of stomaching the flesh of the worm, much less teach him how to hunt it. She relied solely on the food Laufey brought for her. But Loki was born of Jotunheim and therefore welcome to all the pleasures it had to offer, and while he learned to favor the taste of fresh meat, he still salivated at the memory of warm, yellowed fat from the worm's underbelly sliding down his throat.

Loki was also his mother's son. She taught him the art of moving through walls and hiding in shadows, and he used this to follow his brothers and sisters safely and learn the hunt from their actions. He discovered that his small size proved advantageous as, dropping onto the worm from above, he could move between its curved, sharp spines and plunge his ice blade between the armored plates separating its head and body, killing it nigh instantly. He also learned that this tactic had its risks. When attacked, the worm would thrash and flail, whipping its long body about at such speeds that Loki had been impaled on its spines more than once.

Instead he discovered another method that proved far less dangerous to himself. He would let his siblings hunt the worm and place themselves in danger, moving through the cavern walls unseen. When the worm lay dead, Loki would dash in and cut free what he could for himself before returning through the walls where his angry brothers and sisters could not follow. They learned to expect him, but he was small and quicker than they.

He carried on this way for a little while, collecting spines to make blades that did not shatter as easily as ice, the plates and skin for clothing, and the delicious fat that he could also use to make candles for his mother. Her people dwelled underground as well, but unlike Jotunheim her home was warm and lit by the fires of many forges. The pathetic bit of fire was a small comfort, but Loki wanted to make his mother happy. He also wanted her to be proud of him and so told her of his new method of hunting, expecting praise for his ingenuity.

She slapped him across the face and scold him.

"You are the prince of Jotunheim, the son of its king, yet you steal and slink about like a common beggar! Who will be sitting upon the throne one day? It will not be any of them, I assure you! Those _wretches_ should be fighting over who gets to present you with the best of the kill for your _favor!_ "

After his initial shock (his mother had never struck him before), Loki began to realize he liked this idea much, much better.

 

"I wish to participate in the games. It is my right."

Laufey regarded his runt of a child a long moment. He'd been on the surface for a few turns of the seasons now, but he was still very much a boy. Small even by the standards of the other races. Had it not been for his mother's death, he'd still be in the tunnels with his siblings of the season. They would not emerge for many years yet.

"Indeed it is," Laufey said, his voice low, "and yet you have never shown an interest in the gladiatorial games before." There was an angle he was missing, here. Loki was his son and could fight, much as a rabbit may fight a wolf, but he never did so for its own sake.

"Perhaps I wish to shame you no more," Loki added a bow to his words, he was learning, but he was not all that subtle yet, "the sons of the king have always fought in the games. I'm sure my absence has been noted."

Yes and no, Laufey thought, no one expected anything of the halfbreed prince save that he stay out from underfoot, and Laufey preferred that. To place him in the public eye, outside the realm of rumor and scorn, would be all the shame he needed.

At least his mother had tried to make him presentable during her life. In some attempt to make him appear taller, she attached two spines from one of the subterranean worms to a leather band she then tied around his head. She had savaged one of the fine white pelts Laufey had brought her and sewn it to her son's baldric and along the hem of his cloths. She'd even managed to make him a damn pair of boots. The precious gems Laufey had presented to her season after season (for let it be known that Laufey King was generous in his gifts and lavished them among those who pleased him, or in her case, even those who displeased him) she had sewn into his belts and headband. Everything he had ever given his queen she had immediately bequeathed to their undeserving, accursed child.

The games were contests of skill, and while Laufey knew his son to be cunning and capable of finding alternative methods to his needs (had he not been harassing the previous Shaman on lessons of magic for that reason?), they would not serve him there. Perhaps that was what Loki wanted, to truly humiliate Laufey in his inability to perform even the simplest tasks of Jotunn strength. On the other hand, the games were not meant to be lethal, but accidents always occurred, and who more likely to fall from a blade wielded just too strongly than his son? He could afford it now, his second son, Byleistr, had been born not too long ago. Or perhaps not, he _had_ managed to find a use for Loki, after all. Fortunately, or not, Loki was tenacious and had managed to survive so far.

Very well, he'd let the undersized whelp go fetch himself a beating.

"You have my blessing," Laufey said, and waved his son away.

Loki bowed and turned to leave. He was at the entranceway when Laufey spoke.

"How fares your serpent-child?" he asked with a smile showing teeth.

Loki did not turn around. "I have named him Jormungandr."

"And how soon until he can join us here?" Fenrir's time underground had been very short.

"Soon," Loki's voice was tight, "he is too large for the tunnels already…"

"Good, you will begin his emergence after the games. Come the light season I expect another coupling from you and Angrboda."

Loki looked over his shoulder then, and in his eyes Laufey could see nothing but hate.

 

The dark season drew to a close and the skies lighter with each passing day. Soon the light would become too strong and the males retreated underground to the waiting arms of their women. Their wives who expected bloody tales of battle when there had been none. So the games were held, to give them tales, to test their skills, and to release their own lust for battle. The first match was the largest and, sometimes, bloodiest. Nearly a hundred warriors pushed into the arena for the first melee to determine who shall stay for the remaining contests. Those who did not last the first few minutes were removed from the arena with nothing more than hope for a better chance next time. The seats surrounding the arena, as always, were packed with the young, old, and those who traveled far.

Laufey sat himself comfortably in his seat above all others. At his side were the most trusted of his court, his best generals, and the new Shaman, the only female permitted on the surface. He surveyed the warriors below, seeking the minute form of his son. He did not see him and quickly decided his cowardly child found something better to do with himself.

But Loki came. He did not walk into the arena, tiny and unnoticed, but rode.

Fenrir snarled and snapped at any too close to him as he padded across the hard-packed snow. He had grown, his shoulders nearly reaching those of the Jotnar warriors, and his eyes were bright with bloodlust. Loki sat just behind Fenrir's shoulders, one hand resting between them while the other held his spear close to his body. The wolf stopped just before Laufey and wait while Loki raised his spear in a salute to his kingly father. Laufey ground his teeth; Loki at his most proper was in fact when he was most mocking.

He had planned for this tournament a long time. Instead of his headband, Loki wore upon his head a cervelliere, the giant horns of one of the beasts that roamed their realm curving in graceful arches from its front. To counteract their weight, Loki had attached the beast's thick, long hair to the back of the headpiece in likeness of a horse's tail. Over his shoulders Loki wore the beast's pelt, black and heavy to make him look larger. Blackened bones crisscrossed across his chest and coiled down his arms and legs in armor representing death. Melting down a bit of his gold to liquid, Loki had traced his Jotunn markings with it, and they and the runes he inscribed glistened in the moon and starlight.

He looked like the sorcerers of old, when fire and ice dominated the edges of the realms and chaos and power flowed from the Ginnungagap.

Voices erupted around the King of Jotunheim.

 _This is not a mounted tournament,_ some argued, _he should battle on his own two legs like the rest!_

But the majority answered, _It is the resourcefulness of our prince to find a way to overcome his deformity! Let him battle as he is!_

And Laufey, a little curious, agreed. A ferocious steed and armor did not a warrior make. What did his son have to offer otherwise? He would know.

Fenrir howled as the battle began and then was drowned out by the clash of weapons on shields, the grunts and cries of warriors, and the screaming cheers of the spectators. The first melee was the largest and bloodiest contest, but it was also the quickest. Within minutes, half of the warriors had been removed from the arena and would not continue to further games. Loki remained, the reach of his spear and Fenrir's speed allowing him to score many hits and contribute to the clearing of the field, but now many eyes turned to him. He would continue through the games regardless, but to be the one to land the blow that would beat the prince would be one the warriors would love to make.

Loki was not yet finished. It was time to make his point. Snarling and snapping his jaws, Fenrir dashed into the fray anew, and the blade of Loki's spear sang.

One warrior saw him coming and, as Fenrir sped past, leapt into the air, his weapon raised and swinging down towards the prince. Loki saw him, but it was too late to dodge. Green crackles of energy swept up his arm like fire and exploded outward, striking the warrior and sending him flying backwards.

The cries of battle continued, but the cheering had stopped dead, the spectators staring.

Another warrior leapt for Loki, and he flew right over Fenrir and through the simulacrum, landing awkwardly on the other side. Loki, hanging sideways off of Fenrir, struck him with the flat of his blade and then right himself, his magical duplicate vanishing. Weapons were thrown, and he deflected them. Fenrir burst into a sprint, and then there were two Fenrirs, then four, then eight, and then more who dashed through the warriors. They moved independently, the Loki upon each of their backs making swings that the Jotnar did not know whether to ignore or dodge. The real Loki, hidden among his simulacra, scored many hits.

The spectators voices rose in screeching cheers. The melee was forgotten; they saw only their prince.

Laufey rose to his feet in shock. This was sorcery. He'd known his son spent time with the old Shaman, learning her womanly ways in spells and rituals. Powerful magic, but useless for direct combat. Not like _this_. The Shaman had told Laufey of Loki's nature, a remnant of the Ginnungagap, she said, and he had promptly made use of it, but…

This was no damned _remnant_. His son did not merely dress like a sorcerer, he was one.

On the floor of the arena, the battle still raged. Warriors still clashed, but most began to recognize Loki as the immediate threat and rose against him. He'd never used so much magic at once before, and he was panting, but he wasn't finished.

An elder soldier, one who remembered war, separated himself from the others. As Loki approached, he put the point of his weapon down and made a gesture of submission. Fenrir slowed and Loki, recognizing the stance from tales in old books, flipped his spear and tapped it on each of the soldier's shoulders. He stood, and the two of them charged into battle together.

Those in the stands also recognized what had just happened and again rose their voices in approval and excitement.

 _Just like the days of our ancestors_ , Laufey heard in many forms among the crowd, _the days of glory!_

And Laufey understood.

 

The melee was ended, and only Loki and the soldier remained. They could not both win, and the crowd sat silent, waiting. They regarded each other a moment, and then, to gasps and whispers, Loki slid from Fenrir's back and faced the soldier on his own. The old warrior smiled and shook his head, speaking words that only Loki could hear. Again, he lowered his weapon in submission. Loki stood startled a moment, then reached up with his spear and tapped the side of the warrior's head with the flat of the blade. The crowd erupted in cheers and approval as the soldier departed the field. He was met by his fellows with congratulations and respect; no warrior had fought alongside a sorcerer in such a fashion since the day the realms settled into their current shapes.

Loki struggled back onto Fenrir and would not have made it had his child not assisted by lowering himself to the ground. Again, he faced his father and held up his spear in a salute. His hand trembled. As proper, he dedicated his victory to his father and king, as well as other meaningless things. They were empty words, because his father _understood_.

Loki would not continue in the games, because he did not have to. He had not even expected to _win_ , but it certainly didn't hinder his goal.

Laufey watched Loki as he sat alone in the arena, their people cheering for him, crying out his name. Mere moments ago he was the runt of which the people whispered, now he was a sorcerer, a symbol of ancient days when they did not live in the shadow of Asgard, when they equaled if not surpassed the Aesir.

 _Follow me,_ he seemed to say, _and I will return you to those days of glory._

It did not matter whether he could or not, only that they _believed_ he could.

 _Damn_ him!

Laufey dug his nails into his seat so hard it cracked. Loki was indeed in the public eye now, not as a humiliation, but as a sign of a better future, and Laufey could not remove that. His son's absence from the court had been something none bothered with, but now it would be noticed.

Loki would stand beside him, his eldest son, and his voice would be heard.

Were he anyone else, Laufey would have been proud. Even in his fury, a voice whispered in his mind, "that is your child, you have sired a sorcerer."

And Laufey smiled, baring teeth.

Loki watched his father closely, reading the thoughts flitting through his eyes. Fury, hate, he knew these too well, he did not know what else he sought. Perhaps a small, pathetic part of him still desired his father's approval. But then, for just a second, he saw something much more satisfying.

Fear.

His mother had promised him the throne, and he had promised her that nothing would stop him from attaining it. He could kill Laufey and, if done just right, the people would love him for it. But he still had to move cautiously; the people were fickle, and he could fall from their graces far too easily.

One step at a time. He had succeeded in what he'd set out to do.

The next time Laufey sat upon his throne and his court gathered, Loki stood not too far away. He was small, he was young, but he was there, and _they knew it_.

He was, however, forbidden to wear his sorcerers' horns.

 

It was actually gold, not merely yellow, he could almost see his reflection in it. Yet when he bit into it the gold flesh gave under his teeth with a sweet, satisfying crunch and juice slid down his chin. The Jotnar did not have a liking for fruit but Idunn's golden apples were _exquisite_.

All the realms knew of Asgard's closely guarded treasure, the apples that supplied them with their youth and vitality (Indeed, Loki could _feel_ a sense of revitalization even as the apple chunks slid down his throat). How many of those realms coveted the apples, dreamed of their possession, and yet could never attain them?

Yet here was Loki Laufeyson, Jotunn runt, free amidst the gardens of Gladsheim, relaxing in a tree with a golden apple in his hand.

Since he'd arrived in Asgard, he began to scheme and plot to get his hands on one of these treasures. In the end he went for the old tried and true seduction tactic. It always worked in that it never worked. At best, women would hide a laugh behind their hands and turn him away. In Idunn's case, she threw an apple at his head. It yielded the desired result so he decided could deal with his injured pride later.

Soon after he was summoned by Odin who oddly insisted that Loki dine with the royal family. Loki accepted, though remained wary throughout the meal. (A thrilled Thor sat beside him, and became even more enamored with Loki's lack of Asgardian etiquette. He used no utensils and swallowed entire hunks of meat whole, reaching down his throat and removing the bones only after he'd swallowed. One had to eat fast on Jotunheim, and, despite his size, Loki ate a lot. Frigga had to slap her son's hand when he attempted it and firmly remind Thor that he was _not_ on Jotunheim.) After the table was cleared, a bowl of glistening apples, the best of Idunn's crop, was placed before Odin and his family. After the royal family had each taken one, a lone apple remained in the bowl. Loki stared at it.

"That is yours," Odin said, his voice soft, "You are to be treated as one of us. Whatever you desire, you need only ask." The corner of the All-Father's mouth twitched upwards just slightly, "There is no need for schemes."

How dull, Loki thought as he took the apple, his eyes never leaving Odin's remaining one.

However boring, this new turn in his life opened so many possibilities for Loki. The Jotnar were long-lived, but only the Aesir were eternal. With the combined effects of the golden apples and the Casket, (To which Loki had demanded free access from Odin, who grudgingly agreed, but only on Loki's oath that he would never remove it from its pedestal. This suited Loki just fine.) Loki realized he could live forever, eternally young. His heartbeat leapt at the thought.

In his youth on the surface of Jotunheim, Loki ghosted through the walls, listening to the whispers of his people. When they spoke of him, they referred to him as the future 'Runt King of Jotunheim.' He had accepted this, since they were thinking of him as a king at all. But his mother taught him not to merely accept such things, and after his performance during the gladiatorial games, the whispers became different, filled less with scorn and shame and something far better.

The 'Sorcerer King of Jotunheim,' they called him.

 _The King named him well,_ one said, _remember Loki of Utgard? His illusions were so powerful he fooled the Aesir for days on end! They only learned the truth because he told them!_

 _But the prince is so small,_ others argued, _none of the realms will take him seriously._

_Small, yes, and so they will underestimate him. Then he will pull their skeletons from their bodies with a thought!_

The young men grew excited, _Can he do such a thing?_

_The sorcerers were many and very powerful, once. The children of chaos and masters of monsters, they were. They could do anything. But them came the Aesir who set order into the universe and the sorcerers died out._

An old man spoke then, missing teeth and a lisp marring his voice. _No, long ago when fire and ice burned the universe from either ends, we were allied with the Aesir and the Vanir. We even intermarried…_

 _What nonsense!_ everyone cried in shock and anger. Loki's ears pricked in interest.

 _Listen to me!_ the old man snarled, _It was together with the Aesir and Vanir our sorcerers battled back the chaos and set order to the realms. Sacrifices were made on all sides, and when order reigned we realized ours had been the sorcerers. Our own folly; we emerged first from the Ginnungagap, and without it made ourselves lesser men._

 _To our tiny prince, then!_ cried another, _A true sorcerer who will return us to glory!_

_To Prince Loki!_

Loki knew then that never again would he merely accept what was, not when he had the power to change it.

Both he and Odin could gain much from each other, hence the All-Father's declaration of sudden brotherhood. It had nothing to do with their respect nor even the requirement of liking each other, but everything to do with political gain. When the time was right, Loki would only have to say the word, and Odin would back his return to Jotunheim with all the force of Asgard behind him, ensuring Loki the throne. And how would Loki show his gratitude but through continued good relations with Asgard? With his good, dear blood-brother Odin?

Loki was not Laufey. Asgard was the highest of the realms, an alliance with them promised trade and protection from other realms, not shame and subservience. And under that protection could Jotunheim rebuild, grow, and flourish until it would rival Asgard and such protection was no longer needed. Only then would he stand truly equal to Odin. Only then would no one dare challenge Loki.

Still, he thought, taking another bite of the apple, there was a chance that Odin had his own agenda, that once on the throne Loki would be nothing more than a puppet king, trapped under the power of the All-Father. Jotunheim would not be his, but always under the sway of the Aesir and thus never permitted to shine as it was meant.

Loki would not permit that. He was no longer the puppet of anyone, and would never be again.

Finished with the apple, he tossed the rind over his shoulder and stretched forward on the tree branch, resting his chin on his arms. Loki liked trees, they did not grow on Jotunheim, and their leaves were a vibrant green. A rare color on Jotunheim, only appearing on the horizon at the beginning of the light season. The word for 'green' in the giants' language was synonymous with 'dawn,' and from that word derived the words 'expulsion,' as they retreated underground; 'fertility,' as their women became receptive to them (and in that sense, also the word 'love'); and 'brilliance,' for the brightness of their world they could never behold. It was a good color.

There was movement in the corner of Loki's eye and he turned his head to it lazily. One of his simulacra walked across the courtyard, an excited Thor dancing around it, his arms waving as he told some extravagant story.

And Loki realized he'd gone about everything the wrong way regarding the boy; Thor was the key. Thor would become King of Asgard after Odin, and the young prince looked to Loki with a sense of hero worship, of love and awe.

How Loki could use this!

Instead of pushing the boy away, he could nurture that love, and in doing so ensure the prince's loyalty to him. When Loki sat upon the throne of Jotunheim, it would not be Odin All-Father breathing down his neck, but a young King needing his own guiding hand. And guide he would, for the combined strength of Asgard and Jotunheim, hand in hand, could crush any opposition against them. As allies, they would rule the realms, and with Thor's loyalty entrusted to him…

If Loki played this right, he could be the undisputed ruler of all the realms.

He swallowed the rush of saliva that flowed into his mouth. One step at a time, be patient, do not rush. He had a lot of work to do.

Just in time, as Thor's hand suddenly passed through the simulacrum's own. Loki sat up on the branch and dropped to the ground, dismissing the simulacrum as he did so. Thor stopped, shocked, and began looking around until he saw Loki, who waved to him. Thor hurried over, a look of wariness on his young face.

"That was a mean trick," he said, arms crossed over his chest.

"My apologies, my son. I had some business this morning and did not wish to leave you completely alone."

Thor mulled over that a moment. "I'd rather talk to the real you."

"As you wish," Loki said with an open face and slight bow, "I won't do that again. It seemed quite a tale you were telling, I would love to hear of it."

Thor's face lit up, his grievances forgotten, and he launched into a tale only great to little boys. He grabbed onto Loki's hand as they walked, as though to assure himself this was the real one. Loki sighed and let him. He would have to make sacrifices to attain his goal, and it appeared his personal space was to be first, fallen to the might of an excitable, touchy-feely prince.


	4. Knives and Mothers

Thor was angry. His day had not been going well and he made sure any nearby knew of it by stomping his feet and yelling. Except that the only person near enough to take note of it was Loki, who was sorely unimpressed by the tantrum. Well, the gathering thunderheads looming upon the horizon were indeed impressive, but they were at the whim of a child and Loki didn't worry on it.

Thor was of an age where his warrior training was now under the care of instructors, and as a prince, they were the best the kingdom had to offer, oftentimes Odin's generals or warriors volunteering to the task. But Thor was a boy, who only knew of great tales and the feats of heroes therein, not of the hard, ceaseless training it took to get them there. He was actually surprised when he picked up his training sword and was immediately reprimanded for his methods. His instructors taught him stances and grips, the history and anatomy of a weapon, and the various methods of attack by name.

When did he get to _fight?_

Loki sat outside the training ring, watching. If Thor was going to be his new project, it was best he invest some time and effort into his development. All day he watched the prince's frustration grow. Thor was the son of a great warrior king, and he felt _cheated_. They were holding him back, he could be a great warrior too, if they'd let him!

His training had ended at midday, yet Thor had stayed behind, taking up his wooden training blade and venting his frustrations on one of the dummies. The sun was sinking and he'd added a tantrum to his mode of attack.

Loki shook his head, disappointed. All day, the boy's swings were either wide and overreaching or furious thrashings that wore him out quicker than he could strike any effective blows. When the blade did make contact with the target, the energy from Thor's blind strike rebounded and sent him staggering back, off-balance. The boy had determination, but he would squander it under the weight of his own inexperience. Loki stood and entered the ring. Enough was enough.

"My son."

Thor spun mid-swing, throwing off his balance and nearly stumbling, the blade above his head. Loki caught it in his hand and steadied him. Thor stared, surprised to see him.

"My son," he began again, "put away your sword, you are done with it."

Thor's face, already flushed with exertion, puckered into a pout and he pulled his wooden sword from Loki's grasp. He turned and took another swing at the dummy.

"Not until I prove to my father, to you, to _everyone_ that I can fight! I don't need to be coddled!"

Loki couldn't agree more. After a Jotunn child's first successful hunt, he and his siblings were left to their own devices. When the light season came, children were expelled from their homes to make way for the men, and siblings would travel the tunnels together. It was during this time that they learned to fight and survive, and if one or two didn't return home when the season ended, well, that was the way things were. Affection from their mothers did not extend beyond the door of their home. Even Loki's mother had respected that custom, and saved her petting and whispers of love to him for when the door shut. Only the men showed affection outside their homes, offering treats of meat and other surface delights to the children who would gather around them when they initially descended.

The Aesir, on the other hand, were intent on hand-molding their children, hoping to recreate something of themselves. It was barbaric.

But even Thor's initiative of hacking away randomly at defenseless dummies wouldn't help him. Without purpose other than his vague ideal, he had no direction to which to put his efforts, he was just wearing himself out. Loki sighed.

_Smack!_

The sword clattered to the sandy ground some distance away, slapped out of Thor's grip with a backhand. The As prince stared at his hand and then it in shock. Loki stood before him, hands on his hips.

"I have disarmed you with my bare hand. You are _done_."

Thor glared at him, ready to argue, when his face crumbled and his shoulders slumped. "But…"

Loki continued. "Return that," he gestured to the training sword, "to its place and take a moment to rest. I will prepare new targets for you."

Blue eyes bright, Thor blinked up at him. "But you said…"

"I said you were done with that silly sword. If you insist on wasting your afternoon out here you might as well accomplish something other than a sprain."

He wait until Thor dashed away to replace the training weapons in the shed where they were stored before he began dragging the dummies into position. He placed them into a staggered line and, with fire at his fingertips, burned circles into their middles like those of the archery targets. When Thor returned, his face was flushed but he was smiling, his anticipation renewing his excitement, though he stared at the targets in confusion.

"Should I have brought the bows?"

"No need," Loki said, and drew from various spots on his person several knives, "That is not what this lesson is about." He thrust the knives blade first into the nearest target and left them there, instead crouching in front of the young As. "The weapons are secondary. What I am going to teach you, what it is _imperative_ that you learn, is to focus."

"Oh." Thor's shoulder's slumped again. He'd hoped Loki was going to help him, but it was just more boring lessons. Loki narrowed his eyes and flicked Thor on the forehead.

"Pay attention. There are two things that will keep you alive in battle, my son. Determination and focus. You have plenty of the first but none of the second, and all the determination and skill in the world will not help you if you cannot channel it properly. Anything can be attained with the proper focus, understand?"

Thor nodded, but Loki felt no conviction behind it. Frustrated, he gripped the back of Thor's head and leaned forward until their foreheads touched.

"Child, you have not been to battle. I _have_. And you will quickly learn it is far more difficult to fight alongside others than alone, as will be your duty. Over the weapons and the screaming and the _dying_ your people must hear you, and you must be clear in your intent or suffer anarchy and the battlefield is not the place for it. You _must_ keep your head, and oh my son it is so difficult when you are overwhelmed with the sights and sounds and _smells_. You are engaged with your enemy and suddenly jostled from behind only to realize it is an ally whom you cannot fend off with a cut of your sword, all the while your enemy is still coming…"

Thor listened intently. He was no stranger to the lecture of the horrors of war, he received them often from his father and his tutors both to little effect. Even from Loki's hushed speech he gleaned an excitement and anticipation. Yet this was not the diatribe of an old, weary soldier speaking down to Thor as though he was just anybody, nor his father drilling empty as-yet learned lessons into his head. This was Loki, speaking only to him, not as a lesson but as a point to be made most bluntly. And it was, as Thor listened to Loki describe losing his footing upon the blood and excrement of the dead. Thor's desire for battle was not waned, but for the first time he began to understand there was more to it.

He reached up and wrapped his hand around Loki's arm, the one that still held his head. "Teach me," he said, and he meant it.

Loki smiled, a mere twist of his lips. "Very good, my son."

 

"Hold the blade light in your hand, but be firm in your grip. Feel the balance, transfer the energy of your movement to it, so that it flies when you release. Your free hand," Loki lifted Thor's arm so that it remained straight, pointed towards his target, "is your guide, aiming where you want the knife to go. Step into the throw, and release. Got it?"

Thor nodded and tried again, focusing on his stance and movement rather than the target, as Loki insisted. The knife flew from his fingers, glinting as it sailed across the sand, and embedded itself within the nearest target. It barely made it, protruding from the base of the target, but this time it remained, firmly stuck. The previous two had bounced off.

"An improvement," Loki announced.

Thor beamed, taking the statement for praise. It was the closest to it he had received from Loki so far, and he was more than happy to accept it.

Loki approached the target, pulling free the stuck knife and retrieving the wayward two. They hadn't seen such use in a while, accustomed to using magic in battle as he'd become. Odd, considering he'd been throwing knives far longer than he'd ever used magic. They brought a sense of nostalgia, of an underground home left far behind. Returning to Thor, he placed the blades back on the bench he'd pulled up behind them.

"Again," he instructed.

Hesitating, Thor scratched at the side of his head. "Can you show me?"

Loki sighed. "Very well, one more time. Stand thus, with the leg opposite your dominant hand forward…"

"No no, how _you_ do it."

He'd thrown the knives himself for Thor a few times already, showing him the goal of his labors, but it was true, he'd mastered the basics so long ago his body knew precisely what to do without all the posturing. He'd stopped thinking about his steps, his aim, it just _happened_. Not that going over the basics again didn't benefit him a little, too.

"All right." The As prince wanted a show, and Loki didn't mind giving it to him. He turned his back to the targets, picking up his knives, and slid one blade into his belt. Barely glancing over his shoulder, Loki gained an impression of his target's locations.

Fast as a striking snake, Loki whirled, using his momentum to cast out his dominant hand and release the first knife. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he followed through with his other hand in a sharp, diagonal movement. The second knife had barely begun to fly when his freed dominant hand pulled the third knife from his belt and his arm snapped forward.

_Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!_

In rapid succession, each knife buried itself in a different target. Surveying his work, Loki winced. He'd hit the targets, but none of the knives had struck where he'd been aiming. One even stuck out of the shoulder of its target at an odd angle. Indeed, it was a good thing he was out here with Thor, if he was so out of practice himself!

Thor saw none of this, he'd only been watching Loki, and seeing each target struck a blow in such a fashion was enough for him.

"Amazing!" he cried, jumping from his perch on the bench and running over to the targets. With a grunt, Thor pulled free each knife and hurried back to Loki. "I didn't know Jotnar used throwing knives," he explained, presenting the blades to Loki. He couldn't imagine the brutish giants using such an elegant weapon, though he made sure not to say that aloud.

"They don't," he said, setting the knives aside, "they do not need to. It is a skill of the Alfar, the last thing my mother taught me before she succumbed." He continued before Thor was able to form the question plain on his face, "Those not born of Jotunheim rarely live long upon it. Not as themselves, anyway…" he muttered the last part, the memory of his once vibrant and strong mother fresh in his mind.

Though she was small of stature, not of noble birth and, most horrendous of all, a foreigner, Loki's mother was intent that none would forget that she was still the Queen of Jotunheim. He'd seen her bend a woman twice her size to her knees with her words alone because she had not stepped out of their path fast enough. When her words failed she used not strength, but speed. Quick as lightning, he'd seen her lash out against an outcast male, the knife in her hand making short work of his gut. Yet for all that, as soon as the door to their chambers shut away the rest of the world, she would scoop Loki up in her arms and profess her love for her tiny treasure, sing him songs and soothe him to sleep as she stroked her fingers through his hair. She taught him to write, to handle a blade, and how to properly hide away whenever Laufey came to her.

Yet as the years went by Loki found himself witness to changes he could not stop. The cold ate at her endlessly, and no matter how many furs she wrapped herself in she could never properly warm herself. Her plans of eventual freedom that she'd whispered to him at night ceased to be, drained out of her with her last hopes. Loki had tried to cheer her, telling her that when he was king she could go wherever she wanted. He would have her carried to Asgard itself on a palanquin if it was what she desired. She'd only smile sadly and stroke his cheek.

The ever-increasing visits from Laufey did not help. His queen was not Jotunn, and thus receptive to him at any time he pleased, though she would have said otherwise. She was a slight woman, and the experience was always painful to her. When he was too small to be sent away, Loki would hide in the pile of excess furs in the corner or behind one of the tapestries. As he grew, he still stayed, deluding himself to think he could protect her, eventually crawling forward to take her hand as she bore his father's attentions.

She slipped away, farther and farther from Loki as the years passed, until she was a shadow of the woman who had raised him. He couldn't stand it, he would not. His mother, the Queen, would not become as the foreign thralls he'd seen, who'd wander the tunnels like puppets whose strings were manipulated by their masters.

An empty doll for his father to thrust into at his leisure.

No.

While there were no cycling stars and moon in the underground realms of Jotunheim, night and day still passed as above, present only in the silence that would settle in the tunnels. It was in that quiet that Loki sought out his mother as she prepared herself for sleep. Still small, he'd climbed up behind her as she sat on her bed and began to comb through her dark hair.

"Mother, I promise you that one day I will sit on the throne of Jotunheim."

"Yes," she murmured, enjoying his hands sifting through her hair and ignoring the glint of metal in one of them.

His hands stilled and Loki leaned forward, embracing her from behind. "Know I will always love you, Mother."

"You are a good son."

Loki kissed her cheek, softly, and then slit her throat.

He held her until her life had faded and the cold of Jotunheim finally claimed her, and then let her body slide to the floor. He had planned to make her a tomb of carved ice right then, to forever preserve her beauty, but he never got the chance. Fate had its own plan for Loki Laufeyson.

King Laufey entered his queen's chamber to find her still and cold on the floor, their wretched, blood-splattered child standing over her, knife in hand. The boy merely blinked, and then pointed the blade at his king and father.

"You'll not lay your hands upon her ever again," Loki declared, and then he _laughed_.

It was a hideous sound, one Laufey cut off quickly as he struck his son hard enough to send him flying against the wall. He then grabbed Loki by the throat and lifted the runt into the air. All he had to do was squeeze, even a shake would break his treacherous offspring's neck and rid him of this… _monster_ who would slay its own mother. But no, much as he loathe it, Loki was his acknowledged heir, and the people would not look kindly upon a king who so murdered his child-son without reason, for to admit the reason...

The act of killing one's mother was so heinous that if Laufey admitted he even just sired a creature capable of matricide, it would be enough to lose support of the people.

Loki expected death, and he scratched and pulled at Laufey's hands, trying to free himself all the while knowing he could not. But it did not come and instead Loki found himself being carried from his home, through the tunnels in great strides and towards the upper levels. The underground city-tunnels were quiet and mostly empty, the few still about scurried aside and bowed to their King as he strode past, confusion on their faces at the sight of their prince in his grasp. Soon they reached the tunnel steps that led upward into the intermediary levels. These were where the young males awaiting manhood would come to spend several seasons, allowing their eyes to adjust to increasing light levels and their skin to harden. Many from above would come to teach them the ways of men on the surface. But even these levels Laufey passed and Loki began to panic. They were heading straight up.

Light began to filter through the ice in earnest and Loki shut his eyes against it. He could feel the chill bite of air that was not from the underground and for the first time in his life knew cold. Finally they emerged from the tunnel that led to the citadel, and even then Laufey did not stop until they stood before a large set of doors. He threw them open and Loki yelped at the rush of wind and snow.

"Your mother is dead," Laufey snarled, bringing Loki right up to his face until their noses nearly touched. "Congratulations," his voice was low and more dangerous than Loki had ever known, "you are now a man."

With that, Laufey cast Loki out into the courtyard. He hit the ground hard, tumbling in the snow and recoiling from the shock of it. Pain lanced into his head as the light of the stars and moon reflecting off the ice and penetrated even through his eyelids. Whimpering, Loki staggered to his hands and knees and tried to orient himself, but it was too much. He'd been struck blind.

"I'm sorry."

Loki blinked. "What?"

"About your mother," Thor said, "I'd miss my mother, if something happened. Do you miss her?"

Slowly, Loki placed his hand on top of Thor's head, unsure of what else to do with such an earnest, childish look directed at him. "Very much."

Ruffling Thor's hair only slightly, Loki turned back to the bench and picked up a knife, holding it out to the young prince.

"Again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know nothing about knife-throwing, if you couldn't tell. Loki was actually teaching Thor how to throw grenades.


	5. Testing the Waters

Loki had oft heard about the barbarism of the Aesir, a notion he agreed with heartily, but he'd been more hesitant on the claims that their enemies were a filthy, wretched people, like animals. After all, how could such a people maintain rulership over the nine realms? And how often had he heard the Alfar referred to as a dirty people, when his mother had been so cleanly? A merciless, cruel people, then, the Aesir, but certainly clean.

He'd been so wrong.

Mastering the art of illusion had been easy for him, to change his appearance to those around him was much like lying. He tricked them into thinking what they saw was not what was there. True shape-shifting, however, was much easier for the long term as illusions, like a lie, became harder to maintain as more people became involved in it. Changing his nature meant changing the truth instead of merely hiding it. Difficult to do, change from one thing to another, but once the change was done it was done and would hold up until the core of the spell was stripped away. He'd have to be pretty drained for that to happen.

The downside was that he took on the attributes of the form, though the very basis of him remained Jotunn, and that's when Loki had learned the horrible truth: Aesir were _dirty_.

After he'd pledged his loyalty to Odin, the All-Father had armor fit to Loki straight away. He'd worn it throughout the day, thinking little of it, until night fell and he peeled it off to discover sweat and grime plastered to his skin. The armor had not been dirty when it was given to him. The Aesir sweat, produced grease, shed their skin like dust, and who knew _what_ else. The whole of their form was intent to remain in a constant state of soiling itself.

The Jotnar did no such thing; they were born of the ice, which was pure and clean. (Yet the Aesir too had come from the ice in the Ginnungagap. Was this something remaining of Audumbla, whom had licked the first Aesir free from it?) In the case that a Jotunn became dirty, he need only gather the ice about himself and then shake it and the filth free. Young ones, not yet masters of their element, would find places in the tunnels where the stone had been ground down to sand from the living ice and roll in it, scrubbing themselves clean. Loki's mother had done this, as well as made use of a root found in the lower tunnels that was ground down to a powder and used by the women to keep their wolves clean. She would scrub the powder into her hair, and when she shook it free, the powder took with it grime and left her hair soft. She would do the same to Loki, no matter how he squirmed and tried to escape. He carried this habit into adulthood, even when Angerboda would pull at his hair and complain how unclean it was and why didn't he just cut it all off?

Though it would be easier (he certainly wouldn't have to keep going to the tunnels to trade for the powdered root), his hair was one of the few things he had like his mother and he had no intent to change that.

Having removed all his armor, Loki had a thrall take him to where he could clean himself, as much as a warrior in a foreign land in the midst of war could. He'd heard rumors that Aesir, like humans, would wade in rivers to clean themselves, but the effects of the Frost Giants' presence made it too cold for that and he was led to a large tent that had been set up for this purpose. It was warm and humid inside, steam hitting him in the face as he entered that nearly shocked him bad enough to send him running. But this As form could take it, horrific as it was.

Basins of heated water had been set up and Loki watched as the men doused themselves with them, splashing water and scrubbing their bodies with wet and soapy rags. Though he shuddered in disgust, Loki fetched a basin for himself and moved to a corner before mimicking his new Aesir fellows. Loki took a moment to then inspect his new body, fascinated with similarities and differences both. His shape was the same, though his skin softer and plain without his markings, yet covered in hair in most places. Indeed, these Aesir were like animals. But even these thoughts were chased away as he dumped water over himself and fought his initial panic.

The only water that remained unchanged into its frozen state on Jotunheim were the oceans, deep lakes, and underground rivers. The ocean was far away from the city, but lakes were scattered around it, though they were covered with thick layers of ice one could easily traverse. Usually.

Ice shifted, gave way, and replaced itself, especially in the days before the light season. An unwary Jotunn could fall through the ice and into a watery grave.

Water was death to the Jotnar. They sank like stones, and the cold of the dark depths was too much even for them.

Loki had survived by pure luck.

Hunting with his brothers, he learned he was too small to chase an injured elk on foot should his spear not take it down immediately. He made a spear lighter in weight with wicked barbs on the blade, and then tied one end of a long cord to the tip of its shaft, the other end coiled about his arm. When the spear struck its prey, Loki would brace himself and pull the injured animal down with the cord, though it was several times he miscalculated on weight and found himself dragged some distance.

The three sons of Laufey walked over the ice fields, searching for signs of elk that they may find a place to lie in wait to ambush them. Byleistr and Helblindi moved slowly, careful in their steps not to disturb the ice. Loki, confident in his slighter frame, moved ahead. He leapt from a jagged lip of ice and did not register the sharp crack! under his feet until he had already plunged downward into the freezing dark. He sank, the light from the hole he had made grew small as he fell too far for his brothers to reach him. Water dove down his throat and he thrashed in shock as the cold his insulated skin kept at bay plunged into his stomach and froze there.

It was luck that he'd dropped his spear as he fell through. Helblindi snatched it up and Byleistr grabbed the cord, pulling frantically until his elder brother emerged from death's grasp, gasping for air and shivering. Loki vomited water and shook, waiting for his skin and clothes to freeze, and then let the newly formed ice fall from him. Once he recovered, the brothers moved in the other direction, and far more carefully. It was after Helblindi nearly fell through, catching himself and pulled free by his brothers' hauling, that the three of them gave up on the hunt altogether. They left the fields the way they came, traversing over the hills until they reached the hall of their uncle, Thrym, who was more than happy to increase his social standing by hosting all three sons of King Laufey.

(Loki didn't remember that night too well, drunk as he was, but he did recall dancing across the long table in Thrym's feasting hall. His small size allowed him to do so, nimbly moving amidst the guests' food without disturbing it as he sang. His mastery of words made him skilled in the art of the complex, improvised songs of the Jotnar, a talent Thrym lauded.

Helblindi teased that Loki was dancing like a "pixie whore," and Loki, laughing, changed his shape to that of a woman. He stopped laughing when one of Thrym's men, well into his cups, grabbed him. Ice springing from his fingers like a blade, Loki slashed him across the nose, nearly taking his eye. Byleistr was on the offender a second after, beating him into the floor. Loki, back to his normal shape, looked to Thrym, afraid they may have insulted their host, but the old giant only laughed loud and deep, the rest of the hall following.

The next day, despite his beating, the offending man presented Loki with a fine bear's pelt in apology. It was used to back the three brothers' story of their successful hunt when they finally returned home.)

Water could be death to the Aesir as well, something they seemed to forget, judging by the fact they had it everywhere. The whole of Asgard was surrounded by it. They flocked to it when the weather became hot, as though its presence cooled them even as they basked in the sun.

Loki reclined in the meager shade of a tree, reading a history of Svartalfheim and trying to ignore the bead of sweat that ran down the side of his face. The summer days of Asgard left him sluggish and cranky, and would have harmed him were he still as a Jotunn. At the moment, he was as an As would be had he grown up in Loki's home, able to tolerate the heat, but not at all comfortable with it. He wondered if that would change over time; this form was far more adaptable than his natural one.

Under normal circumstances, he would have spent the day hidden within the citadel (he'd already startled a cook when she stumbled across him camping out in the cold storage), but Thor had taken a firm hold of his hand and dragged him outside. He'd managed to grab a book before surrendering, and finally planted himself in the shade with no intention of moving while Thor played on the lip of a pool.

Gladsheim had many fountains and pools on its grounds, this being one of the deepest. A sheer drop punched into the ground that was deep enough to have two men stand on top of each other and barely reach the top. In its depths lived tiny serpents whose scales would glitter with a kaleidoscope of colors when they swam close to the surface. Aside from hissing when disturbed, they were harmless and would dive down to safety. Thor stood on the raised edge, swinging a wooden sword at imaginary foes while Loki glanced up from his book now and again to ensure he hadn't wandered off.

The bead of sweat skimmed down his jaw and Loki swatted at it, growling. He was going to have to bathe again when Thor finished his silliness at this rate. It was not a task Loki enjoyed, but it was better than roiling in his own filth for the rest of the day.

He had been relieved to find that his chambers were connected to his own private bath, sparing him from using the communal ones. His bath was spacious, the basin of a ridiculous size that he couldn't comprehend. When he'd first settled in, it took him a bit to figure out how it worked. He filled the basin and found the soap resting in its dish. Leaning over the tub, he used the dish to splash the water over himself before soaping up the cloth and scrubbing himself down, rinsing the same way. There was a drain by the tub, but he always left behind a good deal of water on the floor.

(On the day a new servant was brought in, her instructions by her elder on Loki's bath were thus: "M'Lord Loki's a peculiar one. Doesn't know to get _in_ the damn tub. But he isn't the type to thank you for correctin' him, so just get used to bringin' a mop.")

Much as Loki hated bathing, he understood the necessity and had to appreciate the Aesir understanding that too. It could be worse, they could _enjoy_ wallowing in their own stink. Loki would have flung himself off the Bifrost by now, were that so. Yet it was still taking longer than he'd like for him to get over his instinctual reaction to water cascading over his head. Every time the memory of falling through dark, oppressive water came flooding back. Loki's heartbeat quickened, his muscles tensed and blood rushed...

Much as it did as he looked up in time to see Thor strip off his tunic and jump into the pool.

" _Thor!_ "

The book flew aside as Loki lunged forward, his knees slamming into the edge of the pool as he plunged himself from the waist into the water. His hands locked around Thor's arms and Loki leaned back, placing his foot against the edge to throw himself, Thor, and their very wet clothes backwards onto the ground, sprawling in a growing puddle.

"I've got you," Loki gasped, hanging on to the boy for his own sake rather than Thor's, "You're safe."

Thor spluttered and pushed out of Loki's grasp. "Loki, what are you _doing?_ "

"What am I...? What are _you_ doing!" Loki sat up and pointed at the disturbed pool in fury, "You could have _died!_ " Where would Loki's plans be, then? He'd have to put his trust in Odin, and while Frigga had been kindly to him, he doubt she would take questions about her fertility very well.

Thor stared at Loki, his face puckered in confusion and annoyance. "I know how to swim, Loki."

The crowd that had been relaxing about the pool had grown silent, some laughing behind their hands at the spectacle Loki had made of himself. He felt his face grow hot even under the water that dripped from his hair and down his face. At the far side of the pool, several young men took their prince's lead and stripped off their outer garments before jumping into the water. Loki watched, amazed, as with a mere fluttering of their hands and feet, they bobbed atop the water like damned _ducks_.

Realization dawned and Thor's eyes grew wide. "You don't know how to swim?"

"Do I look like a fish?" Loki snapped.

"No, but you don't look much like a Jotunn, either," Thor whispered.

Loki's mouth dropped open, though no words came out. Great, the brat was talking back now.

Suddenly Thor was laughing and threw his arms about Loki's soggy shoulders, embracing him tightly and not caring a whit that he was still dripping all over him. "I knew it! Oh, how brave you are, Loki, to risk yourself to save me, unnecessary though it was!"

Were it anyone else, Loki would have taken the words as mockery, but Thor had never been anything but honest with him, mostly because the boy was incapable of anything else. Except that Loki didn't _care_ right now, because he was still _wet_. He pushed Thor aside and stood, shoulders hunched as though he could recoil away from the water that soaked his clothes. Despite the heat, he shivered.

Thor smiled up at him. "I could teach you, it's easy!"

"No," Loki growled and walked back to the tree to retrieve his book. He picked it up between his fingers like a disgusting thing, afraid to wreck it with his now offensive presence. Without a word, he turned and stalked back towards the citadel, his boots squishing with every step and he did not even know how that _happened_. He saw many he recognized in the crowd and knew Thor would be fine on his own; they would let no harm come to him.

Ignoring the trail of water he was leaving behind him, Loki stomped through the corridors, in no mood to bother with his usual, quiet steps. He would go straight to his room and bathe, scrubbing himself down _several times_ before finding some new clothes and... No, better yet, he'd worn his As form long enough. He'd tear off this ugly face and cleanse himself properly with a thick layer of ice and... No, no, he'd go down to the vault, discard this rancid form, and then drape himself over the Casket and let it engulf him in a block of ice so thick and cold none would be able to even see him through it. Then he'd take a nap. Yes, how lovely that would be...

He met Odin coming the opposite direction. The All-Father was not wearing his ceremonial armor, but neither were his robes of the casual kind. He stopped and regarded Loki as he stormed passed, a glint in his remaining eye.

"Have fun with Thor today, did we?"

Loki glared at Odin over his shoulder. "Is this funny to you, All-Father? Do I amuse you?"

Odin pondered the question a second, before his lips twisted upwards in a cocky smile Loki had seen all too often in his blood-brother's son. "Verily," Odin smirked.

His eye twitching, Loki doubled over and, as he'd seen his wolf-son do, shook himself vigorously, his hair flying and spraying water droplets every which-way.

Loki made sure to aim for Odin's very fine robes.


	6. Cracks

The city was beautiful during the darkest part of the season, when all the cold pinpoints of light from within and without the structures refracted off the layered sheets of ice in a myriad of limited but shining colors. The citadel, placed in the center of the city, rose upward as a shimmering, silver spire, the lights blinking between the latticed stonework that had taken so long to carve. It was all best seen from afar, and Jormungandr had been insistent to do so, in his own, wordless way.

Loki had never been able to deny his children anything. Why else would he be out here, maneuvering the treacherous walkway upward to the top of one of the abandoned towers that lined the furthermost edge of the city, in the dark and high winds?

Jormungandr slithered behind Loki, coiling about the walkway, his length nearly reaching the ground where the path began. Loki had feared for him, his great size to much for the ice fields to bear. When the ice finally had broken beneath him, like a shattering continent, Loki cried out in horror as his second and now only son vanished below the depths. Not a moment later, Jormungandr rose again, mouth agape and emitting a rumbling cluck that was his laugh. The water was his element in a way the ice never could be.

"I'm glad you find it funny!" Loki had shouted, sagging to the ground in relief.

The walkway became steep and slippery, a deterrent to enemies should war come to Jotunheim. Jormungandr dipped from the path, extending himself until he reached the edge of the slanted tower itself and coiled around it, slithering upwards. Loki crouched and leapt to the outcropping above, easily within reach for the average Jotunn, but Loki was not yet even fully grown. He scrambled to the top, forming handholds as he ascended, just as Jormungandr's head appeared and rested on the edge of the tower. Resting his hand on the serpent's great snout, Loki sat beside him, and the two stared out to the glittering city in silence.

It could have been hours they rested there. Mournful calls of dire wolves echoed over the fields and Loki turned from the lights of civilization to look out into the endless dark, as though he cold see them. They were too far away, and he knew it was for the best. If he couldn't see them, he could pretend Fenrir was among them.

After his actions in the gladiatorial games, he'd seen how the others had regarded his wolf-son, and, more importantly, the gleam in Laufey's eyes. A magnificent creature, Fenrir was, but nothing more. Not the prince he should have been, as true a Jotunn as any, but a beast to ride. It rankled Loki, who _asked_ his son to carry him into the battle. Fenrir would carry no other. He was not meant to be at the whim of the King, be it Laufey, Loki, or Ymir himself.

Once Loki established his place in the court, he decided to take Fenrir on a long hunt, far away from the city. Fenrir loved such things, and riding upon his back they covered much ground in few days. Eventually Fenrir became suspicious; they'd made several successful kills (mostly just to fill the wolf's stomach) and still Loki urged them on. It was on the third day, as they rested, the call of a wolf pack drifted over the ice. Fenrir's ears pricked up in interest, for while he was Jotunn, there was also more wolf about him than his shape.

Loki stood, pulling his pack over his shoulders instead of Fenrir's own, something the wolf was quick to noticed. He chuffed deep in his throat, but Loki shook his head. This was what he'd been hunting.

"We part ways here, my son. Go join those who would be your people, and I will mine. You will be a king among them, I think, as is your right."

Fenrir's ears flattened and eyes narrowed, but there was a deep whine in his throat as he stepped towards his father.

"Go! There is nothing for you in the city! Nothing! One of us should escape, at least."

Loki could see the longing in his child's features as he turned his head to where another call was heard. Still Fenrir hesitated, and Loki couldn't imagine why. He'd shown no desire to see his mother again, and his time with Loki had been too short.

Frustrated, Loki grabbed his spear and swung, striking Fenrir in the legs with the flat of the blade.

"I said go! If you value your freedom, _go!_ "

One last moment Fenrir stayed. He dropped to the ground, crawling forward on his belly until Loki could feel his hot breath on his face, and, very softly, licked Loki under his chin. Still, his tongue was large enough that Loki staggered back and couldn't help but laugh. Then Fenrir whirled around and sprinted off into the forever white, never looking back. Loki stood until he could see him no more, then turned and made the long trek back to the city on foot. When Laufey found out what he did, well…

Loki was very familiar with the walls of the citadel, having had his face smashed into them often enough. Maybe he should pay a visit to his brother Byleistr in the tunnels until Laufey's anger lessened. As if that were possible.

A deep rumbling from Jormungandr pulled Loki from his musings. Jormungandr was no longer staring into the city, but at another watchtower, barely visible in the dark. The towers formed a ring around the city, and in times of war the soldiers could erect great walls of ice between them to defend it. Underneath the towers were hulking forms, encased in ice and sleeping until the King summoned them. Few of the Sentinels remained, but one waited beneath that other tower, and that was at what Jornumgandr truly looked.

Jormungandr did not speak, but he did not have to, Loki had always been able to read him. Looking into his enormous red eyes, his question was all too clear.

_Is that to be my fate?_

"No," Loki said, knowing immediately that Jormungandr saw it for the lie it was.

The serpent looked away, eyes still on the Sentinel, and Loki sighed.

He reached out and touched a scale barely in reach. "I will not let it."

Loki spoke no lie this time, and Jormungandr accepted it.

After that, the view seemed less inviting, and father and son decided that it was time to return home. Loki descended until he was back on the walkway, Jormungandr uncoiling and re-coiling as he followed.

It was at that moment, though he did not realize it at the time, that Loki's plans, laid since the moment his mother's hand had struck his face, began to crack and crumble around him.

 

It was late in the night, when Asgard had finished its feasting and began to grow quiet. Loki preferred this time, when the halls would begin to empty and he could grab some hours for himself. The library was dark, save a few lights scattered here and there, and Loki had procured a few candles for himself as he lay on a couch, engrossed in some lighter reading. Loki's ignorance of Asgard's seasons and general climate had niggled at him for far too long and he was content to rectify that for the night.

The sound of light steps and the flickering of the candles attracted Loki's attention and he growled. No, oh no, he'd amused the As prince enough for the day. This was Loki time.

Thor popped into view at the far end of the couch, his normal exuberance subdued. The settling of Asgard and the quiet of the library was something even he knew better than to disturb.

"Hello, Loki," he whispered.

Loki narrowed his eyes. "My son."

Thor began to approach, but Loki lifted a leg and placed his foot on the boy's chest, preventing further advancement. Thor didn't seem to notice.

"What are you reading?"

"A book. Nothing you'd be interested in. Go away." Perhaps if he used small words and short sentences, Thor would listen to him.

Unfortunately, Thor had selective hearing. "If you're interested in it, maybe I would be too?" he said, his voice as imploring as he could make it. He was leaning against Loki's foot as though he could make it go away by sheer determination.

Loki reminded himself of small battles not worth fighting. He placed his leg back on the couch, allowing Thor to move closer. "Very well. Only for a minute, I believe you should be heading to bed soon, my son."

"Only a minute," Thor agreed and leaned over to see the book in Loki's hands. "What are you reading? More magical stuff?"

"No, more of the mundane, today," Loki said, tilting the book so the boy could see its contents. Thor took that as an invitation and slid onto the couch, lying on his side with his head resting on Loki's shoulder. Stiffening, Loki had to fight the urge to shove him away, but finally settled and turned the pages until he reached the chapter on weather.

"There's no pictures," Thor grumbled, and Loki reached over to poke him in the head.

"You can make your own, use your mind. You'll find no better canvas. Can't you read?"

"A little."

"Not good enough, my son. Words are powerful things, what you can do with them is limitless, and what they can impart to you is priceless."

Confused, Thor shuffled and repositioned himself, wriggling under Loki's arm until he lay right against his side. Once Thor stilled, Loki continued.

"I've noticed you have an affinity with the weather, storms in particular."

Thor only grinned, proud of his undeveloped skill.

"Would you not prefer to have more than a mere 'affinity?' To understand something, to know how it works, means to know how to control it."

"Is that how your magic works?"

"I have to know of something before I can bend it to my will, yes." He pointed to the book and the page to which he'd turned. "Here is a chapter on the types of storms of Asgard and why they form. Very basic. Would you like to read it?"

Thor blinked up at him with sleepy eyes. "Read it to me?"

Loki sighed. "Very well." He cleared his throat and began to read, softly, not willing to disturb the quiet.

Thor tried to listen, he really did, but now that he was lying still his body remembered that it was indeed late and his eyelids began to droop. Words faded and soon the comforting cadence of Loki's voice soothed him into sleep.

Loki was halfway through the chapter by the time he noticed Thor had gone still, his breathing quiet and regular. In his tiredness, Thor had buried his face in the crook of Loki's neck and reached his arm across his chest in a sleepy embrace. Again Loki sighed and set aside the book for the librarian to deal with.

One minute, indeed.

 

The maids with any sense were being careful to avoid Frigga as she frantically searched for her son. Her worry often manifested itself as wrath where Thor was concerned. Those who reported their searches fruitless would begin to stutter in fear.

It was not uncommon for her stubborn child to evade his nursemaids in the evening, but usually someone would have located him by now and steered him, insisting he was not at all tired, back to her arms.

No one had seen Thor since he'd been caught sneaking confections from the feasting hall and been chased out, and that had been well over two hours ago. She sent maids, servants, and now even the guards to locate her son, but no one had yet to find him.

Completing her own circuit, Frigga stood once again outside Thor's room. She was ready to march out to Heimdall to locate her child when a face unfamiliar to this hallway appeared, dodging frantic servants, but it was who was in his arms she took first notice.

"Thor!" she cried, hurrying to them and laying her hands upon the still-sleeping boy, as though checking for injuries or illness. "Loki, where did you find him?"

"He was with me in the library," Loki adjusted his grip, and Thor only stirred slightly, tightening his hold about Loki's neck, "I apologize, my Queen, I did not realize the passing of time."

"The library," Frigga laughed, her relief chasing away any remaining anger, "How foolish of me not to even think to look there."

"Believe me, I was surprised to see him myself."

"Nonsense, he would follow you nigh anywhere." Frigga held out her arms for her son, and Loki carefully deposited Thor there. Thor was getting of the age where he no longer wished for his mother's outright cuddling, but that didn't stop Frigga from sneaking them when she could.

"Please, my Lady, I suffer from enough nightmares."

Frigga chuckled. "If he is truly bothering you, Loki, I can find some distractions for him."

He was about to ask her to do just that, at least so that Loki could have some time to himself, yet… "That won't be necessary. I have become…accustomed to his presence." Aside from the splotch of drool he'd found on his shoulder, he'd almost enjoyed the evening. Thor was tolerable when he was quiet.

Smiling in a way Loki was certain had a meaning behind it he as yet did not understand, Frigga nodded. "Very well. I will get this one to bed before he wakes and believes himself rested. Then we'll never hear the end of it. Good night, Loki."

"My Queen," Loki bowed, and turned back down the corridor.

She watched him go, a slight smile curving the edge of her lips, before she sent away the servants and prepared Thor for proper bed herself.


	7. The Face of the Enemy

Thor gazed up at the clear sky in disappointment. The frozen ground crunched and broke under his feet as he walked to the training ring to meet Loki for their evening session. Loki had insisted on more than knife throwing, taking what Thor learned from his tutors and finding his own applications for them. Thor had been happy to oblige. It was no later than when they would usually spar, but the sun was nearly gone and bathing the already frozen and dreary world in blue, the temperature dropping further. Thor shivered and tightened his furs about himself. It was more than cold enough, winter was well into its season, and still it had yet to snow. There had been not a cloud in the sky nearly the entire season.

Thor had tried calling on the storms to bring him snow, but he'd been overzealous and the clouds dumped only rain and thunder, warming Gladsheim just enough that the rain did not freeze but soaked everything and caked the ground in mud. He'd received a good swat on his behind from his nursemaid when he's tracked it all over his room. Now the muddy swirls had frozen into place, making the path uneven under his feet.

When he reached the ring, he thought he must have beat Loki there, for he could not see anyone in the encroaching dark. Odd, Loki was never late. Movement by the weapons shed caught his eye and he could see the dull outline of Loki, laying out their weapons for the evening. Smiling, he hurried over, only to be brought up short as Loki turned to him, red eyes practically glowing in the evening light.

Loki's blue skin blend in with the surroundings, making him difficult to see. He wore only a simple tunic, his arms and feet bare. He didn't look cold at all, if anything, he looked more comfortable than Thor ever recalled seeing him.

"Loki..." Thor began, unable to help but take a step back. He knew Loki was a Jotunn, had seen the blue of his hand from that time before, but to see it now in its entire truth caught him off guard.

Paying no mind to Thor's reaction, Loki selected a staff and lifted it, testing its flexibility. "I felt it would be good for you to get some practice against that which is not normal for you. The cold does not bother me and I have a thicker skin than you, freeing me of armor. I'll have the advantage of movement."

Thor only nodded, hands fidgeting with his furs. Once they started and Thor's blood began to warm, he would discard most of his extra layers. He'd been drilled too many times in his life of the dangers of allowing himself to sweat overmuch under his layers in the cold.

Loki set aside the staff, knelt on one knee, and motioned Thor forward. He obeyed without hesitation, though there was some apprehension on his face.

"Look well, my son. This is the face of your enemy."

Thor leaned in close, taking in every detail of the alien face before him. The deep red eyes that glowed like dying embers, the strange blue skin. Reaching up, Thor traced one of the markings down Loki's cheek, noting the cold texture of the skin. It was thicker, but not hard like stone, as he'd always thought. Yet…the facial structure was the same as Thor knew. The eyes, though different, still looked at him in the same way. Under his fingers, Thor could feel the dips of scars in certain places where flesh had been renewed, just like an As.

Thor let his hand drop and smiled, lifting a shoulder in a shrug.

"It is the face of Loki."

Loki stared at him, not expecting that answer. He stood quickly, almost jumping back from the boy. Turning away, he took up the staff again.

"Choose a weapon. We don't have much time before it gets too dark for you."

"What about you?" Thor asked, reaching for the wooden sword he'd come to prefer.

"Jotunheim is in darkness most of the year. I can see as well as if it were daylight."

Thor removed his heavy fur cloak and followed Loki to the center of the ring. Cold as it was, there would be no one to interrupt them tonight. He stood across from Loki, but did not raise his sword. No steam emitted from Loki's nose as he breathed, nor from between his lips when he spoke.

"You're breath's cold."

Loki sighed, realizing his form was going to cause more distraction than he thought. More advantage for him, and that was the lesson. "It would do us no good to have our homes melt around us because of our breath. Our anatomy is such that exhaled air is cooled while the air we inhale is warmed, else we'd freeze from within."

That confused Thor. "But I heard that Frost Giants were made of ice."

"As much as you are. The branches of Yggdrasil are not the only things that connect the races, my son, we all came forth from the Ginnungagap. When you slay your first giant, and feel his blood splatter upon you, you'll realize we burn as hot as you."

"But you were cold when I touched you!"

Loki leaned on his staff. "After the great war, both ancient and new, there were Jotnar who remained on Midgard. They had no choice. Fire is an effective weapon against us, and one you Aesir use liberally. Burns are grievous injuries, and strips of us our connection to the ice." Ice grew up Loki's arm like glistening goosebumps and formed into a point at his fingertips. Thor stared in awe. "More than that, our skin is our insulation. When the flesh is burned too severely to regenerate, we are as susceptible to the cold as you are. My people who'd been so injured could not return home without causing their death. Some chose that fate anyway. We may not be made of ice, but we are born of it, and to lose that connection...I cannot imagine."

The ice shattered and broke off of Loki's hand. He picked up his staff and poked Thor in the chest. "Now, are we going to train at all or have an impromptu history lesson out in the cold?"

Thor lifted his training sword and grinned.

 

Stripped down to a vest and a woolen shirt, Thor panted and made another swing at Loki, who was barely visible in the dark. There was no moon tonight, and Loki was skilled in moving between the shadows of stars. The ground beneath them began to thaw from their movement as they continually circled each other, Thor often finding himself the recipient of a firm staff strike when he left himself open. He'd landed a few blows of his own, and Loki would laugh and dance out of reach again.

"Very good, my son!" Thor heard him pant when he landed a blow to Loki's thigh before he moved out of sight.

"When do I win?" Thor asked, though he did not lower his sword.

"Win? You win when all your enemies are dead, but when they just keep coming, well..."

Loki's voice drifted from behind him, very close. Thor shifted his feet and turned his torso, reaching out to where he caught a glimpse of Loki's arm, intending to take it and pull Loki off balance. His small hand grabbed Loki's wrist.

Thor cried out and leapt away, his hand both burning and numb. Dropping his sword, he sat in the dirt and cradled his hand.

"Wh-what happened?" he sobbed, more from the shock of it than anything. Loki had actually _hurt_ him.

"Let me see," Loki said, dropping beside him and reaching for the injured limb. Thor pulled away, afraid of his touch. Strangely, Loki didn't feel any satisfaction like he usually did when he harmed someone. He hadn't meant to hurt the boy. "I'm sorry, my son, I was...it's habit. I've stopped, my touch won't hurt you."

He reached out, slower this time, and Thor let him take his injured hand and inspect it. His hand was frostbitten. "It's not so bad, you let go quick enough. Here, tuck it under your armpit, like that, keep it warm, I'll get your clothes. We'll go inside, let it thaw out."

"Why? All I did was touch you… but nothing happened when I touched you before!" Thor asked, his voice stronger now that the initial shock had worn off.

"It's a Jotunn defense mechanism. We're less likely to get eaten by something when our very touch causes harm. We learn to control it but when we fight… My son, we can't harm each other, so we don't think about it." _I_ didn't think about it, he cursed himself. What if Thor hadn't let go? Worse, what if Thor's trust in him was lost? What then? He turned away, moving to the bench to retrieve Thor's furs.

"So you didn't mean to?" Thor's eyes were wide, his face far too open. Loki draped his cloak over Thor, entrapping his own heat.

"No, Thor, I didn't mean to hurt you. Come on, we should get you to the healers just in case." Hands on Thor's shoulders, he steered the boy back towards the palace, leaving the training weapons where they'd been dropped. Light from the windows spilled across the ground and all that was Jotunn in Loki's appearance was whisked away, as though the Frost Giant within could only exist in the dark places of Asgard. Goosebumps raised on his arms and legs as the cold air kissed As flesh. Thor dug his heels into the frozen ground, halting them.

"We can't! If they see my hand, they'll know I was burned by a Frost Giant! You'll be discovered!"

Loki sighed, pushing at Thor. He'd left his own cloak behind and it was far too cold to be standing outside arguing. "I doubt anyone will suspect a Jotunn in Asgard, much less one that went to all the trouble just to give the crown prince a minor case of frostbite on his hand. But if it will make you feel better, we'll get the assistance of one of the healers who'd joined Odin's campaign on Jotunheim. They know what I am." Probably a better idea anyway, they knew how to deal with Jotunn-inflicted injuries.

"Alright," Thor relented, and let Loki push him inside.

 

Aesir or not, the flames of the healing room burned too brightly and Loki stood a good distance from them. More important was some distance between himself and the healer's scalding gaze when he glanced up from examining Thor's hand. Loki merely shrugged at him. He knew better than to get on a healer's bad side, but that didn't mean he was going to mope about in repentance, either.

One application of salve and firm instructions to stay inside later, and Thor was once again happily at Loki's heels as though nothing had happened. Loki had to admire that kind of resiliency that children always possessed. It was a decent walk from the healing room back to the royal living-quarters, and at this point in the evening, so close to the evening meal, the corridors were nigh empty.

"After dinner," Thor began, "can we go to the library again?"

"While I approve of your sudden interest in learning, not tonight, my son."

"Why not?"

"There is a certain flower with unique properties that only blooms in winter evenings I am interested in. I plan to go collect a few samples after I eat."

"Can I come?" Thor's eyes grew large and hopeful at the idea of a possible adventure.

"No. If for any reason, because you were just told to stay inside for a bit, last I recall."

"But what am I supposed to _do_ without you?"

Loki rolled his eyes. "Surely you have friends your own age to play with."

Thor stopped, and when Loki turned back he found the boy scuffing his feet, head down and hands behind his back.

"You don't?" Loki asked, incredulous.

Thor shrugged, as though it were something of no import. "You're really my only friend."

Loki's hand clapped over his eyes in frustration. He leaned against a window ledge, the cool air emanating from the glass soothing him. Too cold outside, too warm inside; temperature wise, he was never going to find a happy medium in this accursed place.

It made sense, in a sad way. Thor was the future king of Asgard, the only son of the mighty All-Father. It was a lonely position. There were the children of nobles Loki had seen running amok in Gladsheim, but Thor had little contact with them. He had private tutors and otherwise spent his time with his parents or Loki. This could not continue. He needed Thor to remain loyal to him, yes, but not dependent, unable to make his own decisions. Loki wanted control, but there was nothing appealing about micromanaging. Thor would be better off in classes with other children, and Loki could probably suggest such a thing through Frigga, who was always willing to listen to what he had to say as far as Thor went. He was with the boy enough. Then there were his own interactions. He was indulging Thor far too much, and that would only cause trouble in the long run.

"I didn't have many friends in Jotunheim, either. None, really."

"Really?" Thor asked, moving to stand beside Loki, mimicking his lean against the wall in the way children do. The As prince found that hard to believe; Loki was so amazing, after all. Perhaps his heroic nature indeed ostracized him among his own kind?

"Well, I had my half-brothers. Helblindi had little interest in me, but Byleistr was my only ally. In a sense, he was as much my son as my brother, I practically raised him."

"Why?"

"That was my duty, as royal firstborn, as it was Byleistr's to raise Helblindi as second. It is far less likely for those who follow after you to plot your demise for the throne if they love you as a caretaker. It's an efficient system." If the part was played out as it was meant. How much grief could Laufey have saved himself if he'd done his duty and extended his hand as a father to Loki, even just a little? But he did not, and in the end, Loki's hatred was taken up by Byleistr and further passed to Helblindi. What Laufey gave had been returned threefold.

Loki wondered, briefly, what Helblindi was doing, now that both he and Byleistr were gone.

"Loki?" Thor's voice was strangely timid, as though he did not wish to break the silence that had settled.

"Yes?"

"There's something I don't understand."

"What's that?"

"You once told me you had no future on Jotunheim, but you were going to be king. You tell me of the wonders of that place, but you left. Why did you leave?"

Loki turned where he stood until he was resting his elbows on the window ledge, gazing at his fractured reflection in the latticed glass. He hated it, this hideous As face he wore, but then he'd never been fond of the Jotunn one beneath it, either.

Why indeed. Because Odin had no intention of killing Laufey if he could avoid it, and to remain, even if he'd never gone to the Aesir, would have meant a grim fate Loki knew all too well. Goosebumps appeared and Loki shivered in a way that had nothing to do with the temperature. When he answered, it was as though he'd forgotten Thor was there at all.

"My nine years were up."

It was Loki's reaction that made Thor tense up. The brief, naked fear that slipped out before Loki regained himself. That was wrong, Loki had never been afraid of anything. Well, he'd looked pretty scared during the 'swimming incident' last summer, but that had been fear for Thor's sake, and one on which he'd acted. Not this, this was the fear that made men cower in corners, unable to overcome. Unabated, it could lead to madness, so Tyr had told him once. Though a part of him warned against it, Thor began to ask what Loki meant.

"It's snowing, my son."

Thor pushed himself off the wall and ran to Loki's other side, his excitement extinguishing darker thoughts. Standing on tip-toes, he rested his hands on the ledge and peered out through the window, though his low angle only gave him a view of the lights reflecting off glass. Hands slipped under his arms and Thor gasped in surprise as Loki lifted him until he too was able to rest his elbows on the ledge, allowing him to see the white puffs that fluttered downward.

"Can we go out tomorrow, Loki? Can we?"

"What did the healer just tell you?"

"Pleeease?

"Very well, but wear your damn gloves this time."


	8. Nine Years

"Your son has been struck barren."

Laufey did not turn around. He'd heard his new Shaman enter, unbidden, and while he'd always allowed his Shamans certain freedoms from formality, he was a little annoyed she had not waited for him to give her permission to speak. Her words did not help. But Laufey had not remained King this long without developing patience.

"If he cannot bear, then he will sire again, as he did before. I will find another woman willing to tolerate him."

"No, my lord, he can no longer birth or sire. I have tested this myself."

Laufey rolled his eyes at her smirk. Turning, he settled himself on his throne, sighing as the weight of ages settled upon him. It had been a good plan, one that would have supplied Jotunheim with much needed weapons to use in the coming days, for Laufey was not satisfied with one lonely realm and was looking beyond the stars for better. But, as always, his damned chaos-spawn of a child thwarted him at every turn.

The Shaman watched as Laufey's eyes darkened in fury, the very storms of Jotunheim seeming to boil within, and she shuddered.

"My Lord, it is a temporary condition. Regardless of your son's nature, he is still a man, and the stress of such a birth can be damaging even for a woman, but with enough time..."

"How long?" Laufey snapped.

The Shaman swallowed. "One year for every babe he birthed."

" _Nine years!_ " he bellowed, his fist smashing down onto his throne so hard it shattered and cracks ran up the wall behind him. The Shaman, feeling his rage and fearing for her life, threw herself prostrate upon the floor, ready to beg forgiveness. Instead, Laufey grew calm and had his eldest brought to him.

Loki was dragged in between two guards like a prisoner, rather than a prince, limp and unwilling even to lift his head. His hair was unkempt and filthy, his clothes in tatters. Laufey reached out and took hold of Loki's chin, lifting his eyes to meet his own.

"Take heart, my son," the Jotunn King smiled, his voice sweet and mocking, "your punishment is at an end. You are free."

Loki said nothing, his expression unchanging.

Fingers sliding from chin up past the jaw, Laufey held his child's cheek in his palm, feigning affection. His hand could encompass all of Loki's head. Was this as large as the boy was going to get? He pulled Loki close, whispering to him.

"You have nine years, my son. Nine years until before we start this all over again. And next time, I will succeed."

Loki emitted a small, choking sound, and Laufey couldn't tell if it was from relief or apprehension.

It was the most delicious thing Laufey had heard in a long time, either way.

 

As soon as Byleistr heard of Loki's release from the torment their father had concocted, he ran back to their shared chamber, quick as he was able, in hopes to find his brother there. Loki sat on the edge of the bed, one leg tucked under him so he looked less like a child with his feet dangling. Already he'd tried to return to some semblance of what he was before; his hair was clean and brushed back and he was dressed in his rarely-used long tunic. His kilt wouldn't hide the marks he'd received. He beat his fist against the edge of the bed, slowly in a methodical rhythm, leaving blood he neither felt nor saw.

"My father..." Byleistr began, entering the room with careful steps so not to startle his brother.

Loki did not look at Byleistr, his eyes far away with his mind. "This will not break me," Loki hissed, his voice crackled from misuse, "I am Loki of Jotunheim, son of the King. This will not break me. Tomorrow...I will return to court tomorrow, and they will all see..."

"No," Byleistr said, kneeling before Loki so that they were at eye level, "You need to get well."

"No?" Loki's eyes finally met his brother's, though his hand continued its rhythmic assault, "My son will tell me 'no?'"

Even now, Loki was dangerous, and Byleistr knew he would not win this battle, not directly. Blood trickled down the side of the bed, diverting this way and that as it found a path along the ice, and then froze. A red lightning bolt emblazoned upon the pale blue. Byleistr would kill their father himself for this, but for now he grasped Loki's hand, tiny in his own, and held it from further harm.

"Just one day, then," he said, running his fingers along the abused flesh of his brother's hand, soothing the pain he knew Loki now felt, "Please, you need rest. One day is all I ask."

Loki regarded him a long moment, his gaze sliding down to their joined hands. Byleistr, his younger half-brother whom he'd brought to the surface, as much his child as a sibling, who'd stood by him throughout his ordeal best he could. Who'd remained outside the door when he couldn't, listening to his brother cry out and moan through his torture. Who cleaned him afterward and soothed him into something akin to sleep. All this from a brother's love, not from pity, like Helblindi.

Loki could not deny him so simple a request. He nodded.

Byleistr sighed in relief and leaned forward, resting his head against Loki's own. Where Laufey's closeness had been mocking, Byleistr only sought comfort, and Loki let him have it, turning his face so that they were cheek to cheek in a sign of affection.

"If I am to lie about, tomorrow, there are some spells I wish to look over," Loki began, breaking contact before their stimulated ridges started to burn, "I recall one that allows the caster to whisk himself about with little more than a thought. I would learn this spell, it could come in handy, and best if I prepare myself for Laufey's next round."

Byleistr winced at the idea of Loki's future, but said nothing on the matter, instead agreeing to bring Loki some spell books from the temple. Books were inscribed tablets of stone, ice, and sometimes metal, bound by rings of gold and silver, but spell books were made only of ice, that they could be melted away without a trace should an enemy attempt to take control of them. With the sorcerers of old now gone, a majority of them were useless and would have met such a fate save that each book was a work of art. The ice pages so thin and smooth that one could be looking through glass, each rune carved delicately and with care, intertwined with detailed pictures of figures from myth and history, of animals and diagrams of stars. For this, the spell books were precious and forbidden to be removed from the temple.

Not that this ever stopped the sons of Laufey from sneaking them to and fro as they pleased. Loki, small and born of the world of shadows as well as ice, came and went through the most sacred parts of the temple as easily as if they were his toilet.

Loki waited as Byleistr fussed about him a few minutes more, laying fresh, thick furs upon their bed, before he chased him out on his errand.

Alone, Loki had no choice but to surrender to the torment of his own mind, riding on a wave of fresh memories. His back bent under the weight of dark shadows, and his hands started to shake.

"This will not break me," he chanted, "This will not break me..."

_Nine years until before we start this all over again..._

_All over again..._

Loki collapsed onto his side on the furs, burying his face in them, and began to sob.


	9. Custard

Loki had good dreams, sometimes. Remembrances of pleasant moments that flitted through his brain like ghosts. The really good dreams would take such moments and combine them to make a better fantasy. He remembered his magical education with the old Shaman, whose knowledge he drank like honeyed milk. He remembered walking though the dark tunnels, his small hand in his mother's, as she told him tales of Svartalfheim.

In his dream these became one, and he walked with his mother who whispered to him words of power and drew sigils upon the walls for him to memorize. They were distorted in his sleep, but he paid no mind, instead listening to his mother's beautiful voice, her long fingers carding through his hair. Then the hands became Byleistr's, and he bade farewell to his mother, laughing, as he and his brothers vanished into the white on a hunt. She would wave and disappear, but Loki did not worry, knowing she would still be there when they returned.

If anyone in the waken world were to come upon Loki as he slept and dreamt of delightful things, they would find his lips curled in a small, stupid smile akin to that of a child. For Loki's growth from a boy to a man had been an unhappy one, and he'd never learned the sincere smile of an adult. The twisted smirk, the charming curl of the corner of the mouth, the mocking baring of teeth, these he knew, but an honest smile was beyond him, coming across more as a small boy presented with praise and a sweet. Foolish, with a mouth pulled too wide and a cock of the head, and far, far too open, easily seen and manipulated.

Loki only smiled like that when he slept and did not know he was doing it.

Either way, Loki was dreaming and quite happy to be there, for once, when servants entered and woke him, announcing the Queen was waiting for him.

It had snowed all night, a fresh blanket of white covering the whole of Asgard, and Frigga thought a morning with her son in the virgin snow would be good for them both. Thor had informed his mother of Loki's promise to play with him that day, and she, regal as ever and yet giggling behind her hand, had come to fetch him.

Growling, Loki threw aside his covers and let the cold of the palace wake him.

 

With a yell, Thor threw himself into a pile of snow and vanished from view. He sat up, face red and grinning, and shook snowflakes from his hair. Frigga, bundled in furs against the cold, called out to him cautions that all mothers should give and all little boys must ignore. Loki stood beside her, his eyes wandering and taking in his first Asgardian winter.

It was a cold, clear day, the sun shining brightly upon the snow and turning golden Asgard into a pure silver. It was as though the cold had sapped the world of color, and yet this limited palette was no less beautiful than a spring day, if not more majestic in its silence. Save the sky, bright and blue and so near in its clarity that Loki thought he could reach up an touch it. Would it be cold and solid, like Jotunheim, or soft like the Aesir below it? Loki had never seen such a sky at all until a sojourn to Midgard in his youth, and he had shrunk from it. Little Hela, clutched to his chest, had actually laughed, and he'd started at the sound never before heard.

Frigga noticed his scrutiny and could not help but ask, "Is it at all like your home?" She had never seen Jotunheim, but Loki's arrival had spurred her curiosity and she'd had many books on Jotunheim brought to her chamber for her to peruse. She'd read them in leisure, not in the swift, scanning manner she'd used during the war, aiding her husband as she could with knowledge even from afar.

"No," he said, "your winter is something Asgard wears but briefly, to be discarded when the season ends. Jotunheim _is_ winter."

So much so that the Frost Giants didn't really _have_ a word for 'winter.' The closest Loki could think of were words of permanence and solidity, all derived from the root "to be." This was why the four songs of the Jotnar had similar titles, as they were all named for things that were and had been as far back as his race could remember. He had not realized the severity of such a difference in language until an exchange between himself and Odin during their shared days of war:

"Laufey must not be permitted to keep the Casket of Ancient Winters."

"You mean the Casket of All Things?"

Odin had eyed him suspiciously, as though he'd been mocked. "That is what I said."

It was then Loki learned of the flaw of the All-Tongue, though he reconsidered his judgment now. Perhaps it was not a flaw, but the perfection of the advanced magic of the language that allowed it to convert foreign concepts into something understandable. The eternal state that defined all that the Jotnar were was a mere season to the Aesir, an everlasting Winter, and in the Casket was merely the power of those winters past, not the very heart of Jotunheim itself.

Such a powerful magic, the All-Tongue, one which Loki would love to learn, someday. But it would take eons to travel back to the very fabric of its beginnings, so many words long said he would have to sift through until he found their long-forgotten roots. Well, when he ruled the Nine Realms and had an eternity before him, he could make a hobby of it.

"Still," Loki said, returning his thoughts to the present, "it is an improvement, this weather." To Frigga's surprise, Loki bent low, bringing her hand to his lips in the fashion of young lovers he'd seen at court. "But it cannot outshine the beauty of the Queen of Asgard."

Frigga drew back her hand and chuckled. "Oh my, and what is it you're hoping to ask of me?"

"My Queen wounds me, to think such a thing."

"I think," she said, very amused by his sudden debonair manner, "that you have been with us long enough for me to begin to understand you and your wants."

Loki clutched at his chest as though wounded. "A double injury! My Lady, how your accusation stings. None may understand Loki."

"Hmm." It was a simple sound, but complex in its meaning that as Frigga began to move after her wandering son, Loki had no choice but to follow. He winced at each harsh crunch of snow underfoot.

"But our little play aside," he continued, "there is something I wish to discuss with you. About Thor."

Frigga paused beside a bench, using her cloak to brush away the snow, and sat, gesturing for Loki to join her. "Please do."

"One cannot think to know more than a mother about her son, but you are aware he is with me often and I think I know him."

"He loves you dearly."

It was a simple fact, and yet Frigga's wording made Loki pause as he suddenly stumbled over his own. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Thor spends too much time with me, and I do not mean in the sense of inconvenience for myself. There are many children in the palace, and yet never is Thor among them. Should he not be with children his own age?"

"Yes, but he is also a prince. That title earns him privileges, but also sacrifice. If he must lose a little of his youth for the sake of his education, then it must be so. Do not look at me like that, I wish it were otherwise. Besides, he is not unhappy." She gestured to Thor, gathering handful of snow to himself, the smile of a forming plan on his face.

"Yes, my Lady. But his education need not be sacrificed. Perhaps he could be placed in some of the classes with the nobles' children?"

"I have thought of that, but I worry he may not get the attention he needs."

"How will he recognize need in his subjects if he does not know it himself?"

Frigga glanced at him. She knew this was truth, for she had ruled alongside her husband too long to be anything but a wise queen, but she was also a mother, and for all their good intentions, mothers sometimes hindered their children's growth with their love.

"I will consider your words, Loki."

"My Queen is as kind as she is fair."

"Oh, stop that, will you? Anyone with sense would think you're flirting with me."

Loki began his retort, already conceived and waiting to be born, when a solid snowball splat right into his face. He whirled, his face reddening with the cold of the snowball to find Thor laughing, hands on his hips.

"Got you!" he crowed.

"Thor, for shame! He was not ready," Frigga scold, though she was unsuccessful in completely hiding her amusement.

"All's fair in snowball fights!"

Loki swept the snowy remains from his hair. "Is that so?"

He waved his hand and fully-formed snowballs sprang from the ground at his feet, and with a flick of his fingers they flew at the young Prince. Thor squealed and dove behind a tree.

"Really, my son, you think to challenge me with my own element? I didn't even have to get up to send you running."

Frigga could not contain her mirth at the antics of her son as he tore free a tree branch and swung it, often unsuccessfully, at the volley of snowballs. From the corner of her eye, on the dark shadow that was Loki, she saw it. She leaned close to him and he instinctively leaned away.

"There it is," she said, triumphant.

"What?"

"Your smile. I've been wondering when it would show up. I was beginning to worry you were unhappy here."

"You are mistaken, I smile all the time. A regular merry-man," he sneered.

Frigga shook her head and decided not to argue. Yes, she'd seen him smile and laugh prior that mere glimpse she'd caught, but they'd been as paint on a canvas, created with meticulous strokes of talent, but a reflection of reality only. She didn't count when he was drunk, for then his grins turned ugly and sharp, like a wolf's.

"I'm glad to hear that," she said softly, "for it is a handsome one."

Loki turned away and dismissed her words. Nothing about him was handsome and he knew it, and no patronizing As woman was going to convince him otherwise. He returned his attention to Thor, who had crept closer from the safety of the tree when Loki's volley had ceased. Thor froze, snowball in hand, as though by not moving Loki could not see him. Loki arched his brows at the boy and Thor blinked.

"My son."

"Loki."

It was Frigga who attacked, tossing a snowball right into her son's face. Thor dropped, hands over his head, and scrambled back.

"Mother!" he whined, once safely behind his tree.

"Do not make the mistake of thinking me harmless," she called.

"Any wise son would know this of mothers," Loki smirked.

The Aesir Queen tossed a second snowball in her hand casually. "I wasn't just talking to Thor." With a slight twist of her lips, as though there was nothing odd in her actions, she took hold of the front of Loki's tunic, pulling it from his neck, and dropped the snowball into the opening.

Loki yelped, shocked by the actual cold of it, and fell off the bench. He scrabbled at his belt that kept the snowball from falling through, finally giving up and clutching the cold lump, waiting for it to liquefy.

"Wicked woman!" Loki hissed, shuddering as his arms became covered in gooseflesh under cloth and fur.

"That's 'wicked Queen' to you," Frigga said, gathering another handful of snow into her palm and smoothing it into a perfect snowball. She turned it nimbly in her fingers, ignoring their numbness, and grinned at him in a wide and devious way that was still no less regal than she. "Now hold still while I shove this down your backside."

"Oh no," Loki scoot backwards as she moved towards him, rolled and scrambled to his feet, "Not at all, my Lady will have to catch me!" and he ran.

"So be it!" Frigga cried and gave chase.

Thor, poking his head around the tree at the noise, quickly joined in the pursuit.

It was not a moment later that Odin stepped into the garden. The fresh snow had placed a yearning in his heart and his office and all the problems of Asgard became secondary to the idea of spending some precious time with his family. He was the King of Asgard and yet more her servant than anything, bearing responsibilities and joys undreamed, yet he was also a father and did not wish to be an absent one for Thor. He took whatever time he could for his understanding wife and young son. Some leisure time in the garden, maybe indulging in a bit of play, sounded far too good to pass up.

He entered the sunlight to find his new blood-brother dashing and dodging through the snow, yipping and leapfrogging over benches, with his queen in pursuit, one hand holding up her skirts while the other clutched a bit of melting snow like a weapon. Behind them both was Thor, hands in the air and yelling.

"Stop running and fight, Loki!"

"I'm not fighting your _mother!_ "

Round and round they went, a ridiculous circus more fitting for the square on festival days than the royal gardens, and Odin laughed. Hearing him, Loki changed course and slid to a halt before him, panting.

"All-Father," he greeted, "what brings you out this day?"

"Many things, though one of them is the baths have suddenly been filled with custard and all fingers are pointing to you."

"Custard!" Loki cried, his eyes too wide in shock, "How ridiculous, you know I take my talents more seriously than that. It is quite unfair, my father, that when anything goes wrong the blame is placed upon Loki!"

Frigga caught up, creeping behind him to raise a hand to his shoulder and whisper in his ear, "Why does Loki insist on speaking in third person?" She then shoved a fresh snowball down the back of his tunic. Loki yelped and spun out of her grasp.

Regaining himself, Loki stood up straight and brushed the front of his tunic with his hands, as though he could dust off his indignity. "Custard, honestly," he muttered, "how childish. But," he added, wagging his brows at Odin, "it was rather delicious, yes?"

He was spared Odin's retort when Thor came dashing up, blue eyes bright with excitement at the sight of his father.

"Father! Father!" he cried, leaping into Odin's waiting arms and clinging there, unwilling to let go. "You should have seen! I was making snowballs for a battle when Loki attacked me most viciously..."

Loki snorted.

"...but I fought back. Mother fought too! It was a great battle, Father, but then we had him on the run! He dared not fight the two of us. But it is alright because he is Loki and he is brave and true when it counts."

"Indeed," Odin agreed, smiling at Loki in a knowing way that made his eye twitch and his palms burn.

"Don't start, Odin, or I'll put that custard somewhere you _really_ won't like."

"Is that a confession?"

"More like taking advantage of resources."

The royal family settled themselves on a nearby bench, Thor climbing onto his father's lap to tell him everything he could think of, from his training to gossip he didn't understand, things he'd read and even a strange rock he'd found, all things since last Odin managed to place all his attention on his fair-haired child. The three of them in the snow created a perfect picture, one of which Loki was not a part, so he made his quiet departure.

 

He slid between the trees farther into the garden where they ceased to conform to domestic patterns and grew wild. It was silent in a way Jotunheim could never be. There were no birds, no wind, no mourning cries of beasts caught in the cycle of life and death in the distance. Not here.

The grey trees reached their snow-laden branches upward, supporting the heavy sky and casting blue shadows on the ground, their fingers splayed in mathematical precision. Icicles hung from them, like the long sleeves of a courtesan, but there was no pattern among them. Loki stared, watching the light of the sun dance within them like tiny sprites. He reached out and plucked one, letting its cold bite sting his fingers as he turned it and watched it sparkle. If the trees were pillars and the sky a ceiling, he could almost pretend he was in the Temple, whispering prayers to Thrudgelmir. The prayer could only be six words long, one for each of Thrudgelmir's heads.

Loki tapped the melting icicle against its brethren softly, listening to it ring, and he began to hum. The Spire tune, rarely used outside the temples. He could almost hear Byleistr laugh at him for that. "Only you, my father," he would say, "would dare sing our sacred songs within the home of the Aesir themselves!"

He dropped the icicle, leaving it to die in the sun. Like poor Byleistr. Loki had not even seen to his burial, as was his duty. He had not accepted Helblindi as his new brother-son as he ascended to his new position as second son. He'd stared at Byleistr's lifeless body as Helblindi fell to weeping over it. When Helblindi looked to him at last, Loki had expected hatred, even blame, but his youngest brother had only sorrow.

"Do something," he pleaded.

Loki had left for the Aesir camp that night.

Again he wondered on Helblindi. They'd mostly been indifferent to each other, but they were brothers who'd loved Byleistr, and when the three of them stood together, Loki could say he was almost happy. How they three would stand side by side in their chamber, their palms and cheeks pressed to the ice as they carved the delicate story of their lives together within the walls using their wills. At first it had been Loki alone, joined by Byleistr as he'd become a man and come to live with his elder brother and their lives twined together. Then came Helblindi, and the cracks and threads wove together in a complex pattern that stretched across the ceiling from one floor to another. Byleistr's thread had ended, and Loki...

Had Helblindi placed an ending for him too, or merely let the thread stop? Or had he scratched the traitor prince from the walls entirely?

Loki was homesick.

He heard the crunch of snow under tiny feet before he felt a warm hand slide into his own.

"You went away," Thor whispered, afraid to break the quiet.

"I only wanted to look around. Besides, you were with your family."

Thor blinked up at Loki as though he'd said something stupid. "You're family, too."

Oh dear, the child was delusional. "Shouldn't you be with your parents? How often do you have both their attentions?"

Thor shrugged. "They started talking about adult stuff." He said _adult_ in such a way it didn't take much for Loki to imagine what had really driven Thor away.

"My poor son," he sighed as the boy wrapped his arms around Loki's hips and buried his face in his waist. He'd become accustomed to Thor's closeness but was still unsure on what he was supposed to do with his hands. He felt awkward, just standing there with Thor clinging to him. He glanced around to make sure no one saw them.

Children still confused him, he simply had no proper experience with them. Even when he'd visited Byleistr in the tunnels, he'd talked to his younger brother as a man. Instead of telling him what he could or could not do, he'd say what Byleistr should do or should not, something his brother seemed to appreciate. Odd, when one considered the way of men. The tunnels and boyhood were freedom, the surface and the ways of men were of destiny. Every man born to his position, worn upon him proudly in his markings.

He'd witnessed the birth of his children, but had otherwise paid them no mind until they'd ascended to adulthood. Except Hela.

His beautiful, precious Hela, his _liberator_ , whose first act in her short life had been to end her mother's. She'd been but a babe when he'd last seen her.

Thor looked up at Loki, his big, clear eyes sorrowful. "I'm sorry I said you attacked me. Mother says I shouldn't…eggs-ajerate like that."

Loki sighed and let his hand drop onto Thor's head. "It's alright. It's what boys do, I guess."

_Mother! You were right! I crushed them, I made them bow. They feared me, Mother!_

They stood in silence a moment, Thor clearly having no intention of letting go of Loki. He realized why as he felt Thor's little fingers begin to tremble through his clothes. The boy had lost his cloak somewhere (Frigga would be angry when she found it) and now that he was no longer dashing about the cold was settling on him. Loki removed Thor's arms with one hand and unclasped his own cloak with the other, letting it fall to the ground. He knelt on one knee.

"Come on, up you go."

Surprised, Thor nonetheless understood the unspoken instructions. He pressed himself against Loki's back, his arms wrapped around his neck and his legs around Loki's waist. Loki reached back for his cloak and stood, pulling it over them both and clasping it. At least now he had something to do with his hands as he gripped Thor's thighs to secure him. Loki shivered when Thor poked his cold nose into his neck.

"Better?" he asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Good."

"Loki?"

"Yes?"

"What are we looking at?"

"The trees. The snow. Winter."

"Nothing's happening."

"And isn't it lovely?"

Thor didn't think so, but he kept that to himself and let Loki resume his looking at nothing. Loki was funny that way, sometimes. Now and again Thor overheard adults say that he was mad or crazy, and the way they said it implied it was not a compliment. It made Thor angry.

Loki started humming again, rocking slowly from one foot to the other, then he began to sing. Thor listened, trying to recognize it. The tune remained unchanging, as though Loki was singing the same song over and over, but the words never repeat themselves. He sang of things come and gone, of names Thor didn't know, of the chaotic shifts of the ice fields, and of the steady movement of the glaciers. He sang of things that were but were not to Thor.

"Is this a Jotunn song?" Thor whispered.

Loki nodded, but didn't cease. The Spire tune was a simple one, but Loki's lyrics rarely were and he had no intention of cutting himself short. After a moment, he could hear Thor join in best he could. Unable to follow the words, he instead hummed along.

Oh child, Loki thought, you will be a magnificent Aesir King, one who will eat from my palm most splendidly.

When he finished, holding the last word until it trailed off and was swallowed by the air, he readjusted a sagging Thor and turned back the way they'd come. He bade a silent farewell to the frail Asgardian winter. How fleeting things were in the supposed Realm Eternal.

As they entered the familiar gardens, Thor poked Loki again with his nose.

"Loki?"

"My son."

"Thank you for the custard," he whispered, his voice soft with conspiracy. He'd angered his mother the night before and been sent away from the table before he'd even tasted the dessert custard, his favorite. He'd looked to Loki for support in this injustice, but Loki, cracking a bone between his teeth to reach the marrow, hadn't even looked at him. Thor had stormed away, angrier with his supposed friend than his mother. He'd awoken to the shout of his servants who'd been preparing him a hot bath to chase away the morning chill. Delicious custard flowed from the pipes and a delighted Thor managed to slurp up several handfuls before his nurse had pulled him away to get dressed for his mother. The poor servants could only stare at the tub in bewilderment.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Loki sniffed, "Is there any left, by the way?"

"Oh yes!" Thor cheered, "It filled the public baths! It'll take them forever and _ever_ to clean it all up!"

"Well then, shall we give the staff a hand and go get some more?"

"Yes!"

"Very well," Loki laughed, his head cocked and a great stupid smile splitting his face.


	10. The Will to Learn

The fire burned brightly, vivid green, but gave off no heat. It was her acolyte's duty every morning to set the fire that the old Shaman may work, a trifle thing, yet something that the old woman could no longer do for herself. She could read the stars and cast the bones better than any and provide her king with the words he desired, and in that she was still safe.

A woman of the surface, Jotunheim had treated her as any man. Her skin was hardened and angled, making the deep lines of her face more prominent. The Shaman was not attractive for her sex, but it was a price she gladly paid for her right to live under the stars and serve the king directly. For many, many years she had done so, so long that her knotted hands shook as she lay the lines upon the ice that she may attempt to summon a spark of something from herself. The clouds were heavy this day, hiding the stars, so she huddled in her den and pondered a hot drink.

There was a shift nearby, of something moving that shouldn't, and she watched as a shadow moved through the wall, approaching her. The shadow stepped clear, solidifying into the form of a child who, upon realizing the wall was ended, dropped to a squat, his hands before him and his head turning. A very small child with fine features and dark hair on his head. It was grown long and wild, hanging lank from his scalp before it decided life was not what it had hoped for and attempted to curl back from whence it came but lacking the strength to do so.

He did not seem to know she was there, and she confirmed this as he tilted his head to listen, his eyes seeing nothing. The Shaman remained silent, watching in fascination as the blind runt (Laufey's firstborn, she had no doubt) reached out his hand to the fire, fingers stretched out but not touching the flames. He held like that, and then, reaching a decision, thrust his hand into the emerald fire, twisting it into a fist as though he meant to grab hold of the flame itself. The runt retracted his arm and opened his hand, and the Shaman's eyes widened as she watched a new flame flare from his palm, thrive for but a moment, and then burn out.

The old Shaman couldn't help but laugh. Oh, did King Laufey not know what he had wrought?

The tiny prince jumped at the sound, hands up and ready to step back into the safety of the wall. "Who's there?"

"Only an old woman," she answered, still smiling.

"The Shaman," Loki said, relaxing a little. Her voice had revealed her general location to him, and his head was turned in her direction, but his eyes were looking more towards her feet.

"What happened to your sight? Surely the prince was not born this way and survived?"

Loki's gaze returned to the fire. "No. The surface is too bright."

Brought up too fast. Odd, males were usually smarter than that. She narrowed her eyes as she regarded him. His eyes remained unfocussed, but they were staring directly at the flames. "Can you see the fire?"

"No, but I know it's there."

Sighing, the Shaman smoothed her intricate lines from the floor and pushed aside her tools. "Approach me, let me see your eyes."

He hesitated, then decided he had nothing to lose and crawled forward, his hands feeling out his way. He stopped when he felt her bony hands upon his face, holding his chin and tilting his head back. Holding him still, the Shaman used two fingers to pry back eyelids, examining the eyes. She also peered at his features closely, and in them found another truth. While the prince looked Jotunn at first glance, he was also half Svartalfr, and it was readily apparent in the structure of his face, in his hair, and his size. She nearly laughed again; indeed, Laufey had no idea what he'd sired, otherwise he'd realize that this was no runt. The boy was the exact size he was supposed to be.

"Your eyesight can be saved. Do as I say and you will be able to see again within a few days."

Loki nodded, though for all he knew she did not see it. He listened as the Shaman moved about, heard the tinkering of ice and rare glass, of bottles being opened, sack strings pulled. He listened and heard the grinding of a mortar and pestle, of the mutterings of an old Shaman and her craft.

"Why is it that only women can use magic?" he asked, tired of the silence.

"Contrary to what you males think, it is we women whose blood burns hot," she growled, her voice straining as she ground her ingredients into dust, "It is we who need that heat, so that we may sacrifice some to create new life. You men do not burn as we do, and so have little skill in the art. Why waste a man on something he cannot master when there are better things he could be doing?"

"Yet I can see the fire."

"Your blood burns hotter than a man's, then."

"Why?"

A smile crept across the Shaman's black lips. He did not know! "Because it must," she nigh purred, then continued when it looked that he may keep asking questions. "I am ready. For this to work, the medication must reach your eye; you will need to pull back your third eyelid. There will be pain. Do not struggle or I will take longer and your eye will freeze in the meantime. We will do one then the other. When I tell you, shut your eye and keep it closed."

With no more warning that that, the old woman knelt behind Loki, pulling him onto his back so his head was held still in the crook of her leg. He was so small, she momentarily feared harming him. She brushed such concerns aside. So what if she did? The boy would not survive long as he was anyway.

Choosing an eye, she pried back the lids and held them. She then told him to pull back the remaining one, though it took him a moment to comply. The Jotnar never had need to pull back the haw, else risk exposing the eye to freeze, and so working the muscles to do so proved difficult for him. Finally the clear lid slid aside and the Shaman used her free hand to drop a bit of the potion she'd made into his eye. Loki winced and tightened his fists, fighting the instinct the shut his eye and hissing through the pain.

The Shaman told him to shut his eye and watched the third lid close before she released him. His eye snapped shut and he moaned, it felt dry and scratchy, and burned terribly. She slapped his hand away when he tried to rub it. There was one more, and now that he knew what pain to expect, getting him to draw back the haw and expose the other eye for a dose was more difficult. It was only after she threatened to slice it open that he obeyed. When she had finished, and left him sniffling on the floor, she cut a strip of soft leather and tied it around his head, covering his eyes.

"Do not remove this until three days have past," she said, "and even then, I would remain inside and out of moonlight."

"Moonlight," Loki whispered. He was of the surface now but had yet to see its wonders. He had dreamed of the moon and stars for years.

The Shaman shooed him away then, and he vanished through the wall from where he came without thanking her.

 

It was five days before she saw him again, his eyes opened to red slits and leaning against her entryway as though he owned it. With his sight returned he'd cleaned himself up best an ugly halfbreed could. His hair was trimmed and managed and he wore a fine fur-trimmed kilt. He'd darkened his markings in the fashion of young men eagerly declaring their place in society.

The prince was young, barely beyond boyhood and the plain primary patterns showed this. The secondary markings had yet to develop. (The mother must have perished, for there was no other reason one so young would be placed among the men. It happened sometimes. Better a fledgling man than a coward afraid to leave the tunnels and thus doomed to be an outcast.) The Shaman took quick note of the primary pattern designs visible on his torso. All the patterns of the royal line were there. Halfbreed or runt, it didn't matter, in this alone he was a viable heir, and Laufey had cemented it when he presented the boy to the Svartalfar and declared him his son.

"The Prince honors me with his presence," the Shaman said with a bow, dusting aside some clutter on the floor and laying down a fur for him.

Loki ignored the invite. "If only you meant that."

She didn't insult him by denying it. "But you are here. What is it you desire, Highness?"

"Information."

"I have that in plenty."

"You said my blood burned hot, like a woman's."

Hotter, the Shaman thought, like a star. Magic burned brightly for a time, shining and beautiful, before it finally waned and died, leaving the caster empty. It was the fate of women who pursued this art. It was her fate. Not he. He would shine and keep shining, brighter and brighter until it became too much, a supernova that would tear him asunder in his own brilliance, one way or another.

That was the fate of sorcerers.

But he didn't need to know that, so she merely nodded.

"It stands to reason, then, that I could master magic."

The Shaman narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps, but you are a male regardless and it is not to be your path."

"On the contrary, I think it is, and you will be the one to teach me."

"No," she said, slowly with an edge to her voice, "I will not." The last thing she needed was some remnant sorcerer running around. Women had always had skill in magic, but the Shamans did not rise to serve their lords until after the last of the sorcerers had died.

The prince stood there a long moment, looking at her, and then shrugged. "As you wish. Tell me, why do you not light the fire in the morning yourself?"

The Shaman glanced at the green flames of her fire, taken aback by this supposed non-sequitur, and suddenly far more wary of him. "My acolyte needs the practice…" It was a common reply, one she'd honed for casual use, and one Loki spoke over before she'd even finished.

"A simple thing as that is beneath her skill. It is, in fact, far more cumbersome to pull her from her own study to do something you yourself can do with a thought." A smile crept across his face, thin and sharp like a knife's edge, "Unless, of course, you can't."

Loki's shoulders drooped and his face fell, sorrow clouding his eyes. His voice became light and too sincere, almost wistful, "What a shame it would be, were my father to find out that his Shaman could no longer perform her duties. He would be forced to put you to death."

The Shaman moved into a crouch, as though expecting an attack, and bared her teeth. "You're assuming the King would believe _your_ treacherous whispers," she hissed.

"My father is not a fool," Loki snarled, all pretense of remorse snapped away like the crack of a whip, "You are old, and when was the last time _anyone_ saw you perform even the most basic of spells? But," his voice softened, even and ponderous, "how could anyone question your skill if you were to take on a new student? And how could _he_ allow anything ill to befall his beloved teacher, so long as she taught him well?"

It was not a position the Shaman enjoyed, but a true one nonetheless. The thrice-damned wretch had her in his hold.

She pat the fur she had laid out for him again. "Come and be comfortable, my prince, there is much to teach you."

Loki learned well. One did not start small with cautious steps in magic, but flung themselves into it, much as an infant, given a bit of charcoal and paper and told to draw something, scribbles madly with no apparent rhyme or reason and claims the resulting mess is a dog. Things exploded or assembled in pure madness as Loki cast his will about, learning its base parts and refining it until every thought, word, and gesture defined his desires so explicitly that he was rarely held up on even the most difficult of spells for long.

It was then that Loki was dangerous to her. His visits became less frequent as he busied himself with his own studies and surpassed both the Shaman and her acolyte. He did not need them anymore. In this, she believed her own hold over him; as he could reveal her lack of magic, she in turn could reveal his skill in it.

It was her mistake, for Loki, Laufey's runt, had no respect among the men as it was, and his preference for tricks and magic could do no more damage to his horrid name than he had by merely existing. However, the Shaman's attempt to gain control over him was enough for him to view her as a threat, and he betrayed her.

It was an honorable death, one ruled by ritual and gratitude for her service and sacrifice, but that made it no easier for her to accept. Still, she was a proud woman and strode toward her end with her head held high. Her body would be placed in a special tomb reserved for her kind, stored with gifts and valuables should she need them for wherever the Jotnar went when their lives ended, if they went anywhere.

As she was led away, she stopped and faced Laufey. "I have one last thing to tell you, my King. It concerns the true nature of your son."

Immediately after, Laufey sought a woman willing to marry his son, still very much a child, and Loki did not understand why he did so.

He did not understand when Angrboda pinned him beneath her.

It was when a writhing wolf pup, not a Frost Giant, was placed into the arms of his child-father and Laufey, who should not have been in the birthing chamber, congratulated Angrboda on the birth of a monster that Loki understood.

It was only then that Loki finally realized what he was.

It was in this that the Shaman had her vengeance upon him.

 

It was that time of night when the long-burning candles of Odin's office melted into warped puddles and flickered out. The golden glow of the room was light enough, but the candles had always aided in reading the seemingly endless sheaves of papers that lay strewn across the grand desk that dominated the room. Odin pondered having new ones brought, for all the good it would do. The wording of every trade agreement, treatise, and request were beginning to blur and sound the same. The King of Gods lifted his hand to snuff out the last sputtering candle and retire when the doors to his office opened with a soft creak.

They were made of an ancient wood, crafted from Yggdrasil during Buri's time. The doors were once the gateway into Gladsheim during its beginnings, and as the citadel grew and was made all the grander, Borr had the ancient wooden doors replaced with finer, stronger materials. Odin would not let them be laid aside, and instead placed them before his private office, and the old sentinels thanked him by never allowing any to pass them by without a warning creak of the ages.

Loki slid into the room, dexterous as a shadow. "Hush, old fathers," he whispered to the doors as he shut them. He smirked at Odin over his shoulder as they shut with a thud so deep it was more felt than heard. "You're still here, then?"

"You are skilled in the art of saying that which is obvious," Odin said, snuffing out the last candle. For the last season or so, Odin noticed that someone had been sneaking in and out of his private office. The culprit was meticulous in returning anything he touched to its proper place, and Odin would not have noticed save the wards he placed and the fact that a book from his collection would be gone. He suspected Loki, for who else could come and go so well, and yet he found himself not minding the trespasses. He even stopped bothering to place the wards, as Loki simply found ways to unravel them.

Odin didn't believe there was anything sinister in Loki's secret visits. The Aesir King had taken his Queen and blood-brother's advice and Thor was placed alongside other children in their lessons. It had been a wise choice, as Thor indeed had initially not bonded well with the children, unaccustomed to simply being among them. But he had begun to warm to them, and spoke of his new friends often during meals, but every day, as his lessons ended, Thor would dash off to find his favorite Jotunn playmate.

Somehow, Loki had learned that Odin's office was a place that Thor had been forbidden to enter and that was the one decree he dared not disobey. So Loki took to hiding there when he tired of an exuberant As boy, bursting with energy after a day of lessons, climbing all over him.

Odin found it uproariously funny, but also found himself gladdened by Thor's love for Loki. For all he was careful to stress to Thor the fact that the Jotnar were not monsters, he could not cloak his son from the feelings of the populace, who still dehumanized their former enemies. It was a necessary mindset to hold in war, one could not hesitate to slay their enemy in the heat of battle, but no one wanted the war to end more than Odin, and for him, it would not be so until his people let it, and that would be a long time coming. He still insisted that Loki kept his identity to as few as possible, for his own protection.

This only raised curiosity among the Aesir, but fortunately most believed the story that Loki was a common As from one of the outposts stationed on a distant branch of Yggdrasil (this also explained Loki's penchant for magic and his foreign behaviors, since all Aesir who lived so far from their homeland were generally regarded as strange). Still, lips loosened by drink would speak and rumors would run rampant. This even the All-Father could not stop. Through Hugin and Munin, he'd heard them all, from the scandalous rumor that Loki was in fact his illegitimate son by a Vanr, to the laughable story that he was the fire demon Surtur trapped in a manageable form to be kept under the All-Father's watchful eye. (Odin suspected Loki himself started that one for his own amusement.)

Thor would grow up in the aftermath of hate, turned cold to depravation. Odin could only hope, when Thor became a man, that the day he met a Jotunn he would think of Loki and not instinctively lash out.

Loki hesitated by the door, and Odin could not surmise if it was because Loki had not expected to find him in his office or the bout of caution his new brother displayed on occasion. Maybe he was just waiting to be invited. For all Loki's schemes and tricks, he was a relatively polite young man.

"Hiding from my son?" Odin asked, gesturing Loki forward.

Loki stepped closer with cautious ease. "He gets most excitable before bed and tends to run the maids ragged. I found he's easier to manage if I'm not there. Besides," he held up a slender book, "I believe this belongs on that shelf right there." He pointed to a book-sized gap among the tomes that lined almost every wall in the office. "And, most important," he set the book down on the edge of Odin's desk and sat on the empty chair before it, "Frigga tells me this is where you hide the best wine."

"Treacherous woman," Odin muttered, but he pulled out the bottle from its hidden nook and poured them both a glass just the same.

Loki accepted it with a nod, inhaled the bouquet, and watched Odin take his own sip. Tasting the wine, Loki let the palate settle on his tongue and basked in the aftertaste once the liquid fled down his throat. He had no experience with wines as they had little popularity on Jotunheim. Asgard produced some wines but the best were from Alfheim and the Jotnar had good relations with neither. All wines tasted the same to Loki, but if he was going to drink it, he wanted the best.

Odin set aside his glass and glanced at the book Loki had returned. A History of Basic Magical Theory. Not light reading, but Odin had thought Loki beyond that level of knowledge and said so.

Loki shrugged. "My teachings more or less covered the practical. What I learned of theory was whatever I managed to find on my own. Unfortunately, our texts were rather limited in their scope." But even the vast library of Gladsheim had not answered his question. For too long, Loki had thought himself akin to women in the ways of magic, just as the Shaman had told him, and yet he proved himself more powerful than most. He'd always assumed it was ambition and necessity. Upon entering Odin's private office, he'd found a far greater library in books on magic and the ages. Many nights he spent pouring over the heavy tomes to no avail, so when the greatest of magic did not answer his questions, he returned to the basics that had been denied him and there found his answer.

The blood of women burned hot indeed, but the sorcerers were the children of chaos. Loki was free of the restraints the old Shaman had taught him.

Odin had known this, and so, upon learning of Loki's nature, was relieved that the Jotunn prince declared his loyalty to the All-Father on his own. Had he not, Odin would have taken him from Jotunheim anyway, for he could not have allowed Laufey to keep a sorcerer under his control.

"You are free to use whatever you need," Odin said.

Loki smiled into his glass. "How charitable. Especially considering I have been doing just that for some time without your blessing."

"If I had not wished you here, you would not be. I may not be a sorcerer, Loki, but I have had a way with magic long before you were born."

Loki had to accede that point. He had seen the All-Father use only a little magic, mostly through Gungnir, and it had both awed and terrified him. Were he ever to battle his blood-brother one on one, he was certain he would not stand a chance.

Not yet.

"On that note," Odin continued, taking another sip of his wine, "it has grown quiet in my halls as of late. The guards are nervous. What are you planning?"

Swirling the wine in his glass, Loki leaned back into the chair and crossed his legs casually. "Ah, well, when one's targets of amusement begin to expect him, it's time to move on. I've been thinking of expansion in my little pranks."

Odin sighed. "Just don't cause any permanent damage."

"Ah," Loki chuckled, "So I have my father's blessing!"

"And you can stop that now. I have declared you my brother and I would have you use such a title."

It was Loki's turn to sigh, long and drawn out with his eyes half-lidded. "Even I am not so arrogant to believe myself equal to you, as such a title would imply."

"You are in Asgard, and here a brother is a brother. If it comforts you, think of it as practice for the day you take your throne, when we will be brothers in our positions if nothing else."

"Do you think of Laufey as a brother, then?" Loki's tone was almost mocking. He drained his glass.

Pausing, Odin considered his words carefully, "I may have, once. The position of King is a lonely one, and I cannot help the feeling of kinship towards another who shares the burden of it. Laufey did not wish for the hand of brotherhood, but even between enemies, there is a mutual understanding unique to us." He stood and poured Loki another glass, "Fortunately, the loneliness is mitigated by a good wife and a wise Queen to help bear the burden. You will understand this, someday."

"No, I will not. My wife provided me with no such comfort."

Odin sat and placed the wine bottle upon the desk harsher than he intended. "You are married? You did not tell me you were leaving a family behind."

"I didn't. She died a long time ago."

"I see," Odin said, warily. Loki was too young to have been wed. Jotunn females preferred mature males who had proven themselves, though exceptions occurred and Loki _was_ a prince. "My condolences."

"I hated her." Loki's face was impassive as he spoke, his voice as emotionless as if he were discussing one of Odin's trade agreements.

This set off alarms in the All-Father's mind. He was not ignorant of the ways of Frost Giants, and was well aware of the importance they placed on the right of choice in the matters of marriage regardless of either participant's rank. If either spouse lost interest it was a simple matter of returning the courting gifts and going their separate ways. The concept of an unhappy marriage was an odd one to them.

(Once, during a feast, Loki had listened to a conversation between two nobles and then turned to Odin to ask what _adultery_ meant. He'd said it in such a way that betrayed that even the all-tongue could not put into a comprehensible term, a foreigner speaking the morphemes as he heard them broken into slow syllables. Odin tried to explain the concept best he could, but Loki only became frustrated.

Among the Jotnar, marriage was limited between a man and a woman for the sake of creating offspring, but love and partnership were not. Considering the women's seasonal sexuality, men more often found pleasure with each other. But love was neither constrained to one or the other, a man could love his wife as dearly as his lover and be happy with both.

When Loki did understand, he pointedly told Odin that the Aesir were an uncivilized, greedy people.)

The idea that Loki had entered into a marriage at such a young age coupled with the fact that he had been unhappy enough to claim outright _hatred_ of his wife had no good implications.

"Yet," Odin began, hating himself for probing for answers he already knew, "you did not leave her."

Loki chuckled and drank, and had his laugh not been so soft, so quiet, it would have been near hysteria. "I had no choice in the matter, in neither the entering nor the ending."

Angrboda had volunteered, but for Loki there had been no choice, and when the light season came, he found himself shoved into her home. He had been young and so small, and Angrboda scowled at the sight of him.

"Am I even going to _feel_ this?" she snarled, and pulled him to her bed.

Loki had known little of sex, save that it made his mother cry, and Angrboda was neither patient nor kind with him. Afterwards he huddled in the corner, shaking and bloody, and wondered what had just _happened?_

After Fenrir, their second season spent together was less horrific in the sense that Loki knew what to expect, though his anxiety of the encroaching season made it worse than it needed to be. Their third season was different. Though much older, Loki was still not a man, but he felt like one. No longer was he Laufey's runt, but the future Sorcerer-King of Jotunheim, and no more would he tolerate Angrboda's complaints of his inadequacies.

Their third coupling had been almost pleasurable for Loki, not due to the act itself, but from the enjoyment he garnered as he watched her moan through a mouthful of blood. One word too many had she spoken against her husband, and so Loki ripped out her tongue and ate it before her. Then he returned all that she had done to him as she snarled and wept. If there was anything Loki learned from watching his father, it was how to force a woman.

(That night, Loki dreamt of his mother. She moaned and cried as she was raped, but it was not Laufey who held her down, but Loki himself. He startled awake and was violently ill on the floor beside the bed. He did not touch Angrboda again.)

Loki regret the mutilation of his wife, not for her sake or any sense of wrongdoing, but because every personal victory came with a price. He regret the flesh he ate.

He ignored the pains in his abdomen that began soon after and brushed off the dizzy spells as illness. But it was in the dark and deep tunnels the pain ripped through him, threatening to tear him apart as he screamed and clawed at stone so that his black nails cracked and broke. It was from his own being he pulled the twisted, misshapen _thing_ that mewled for but a moment and then died. Sexless and with one tiny limb, still connected to him by the life-giving umbilical cord and it had _died_.

Loki felt nothing for his twisted babe, only horror at what he had just _done_.

He had given birth.

_He had given birth._

He buried the thing, deep in the rock and then covered it with a thick sheet of ice. He crawled into a small cleft in the stone and shook.

_What was he?_

There was no one who could give him an answer.

When Hela was born and Angrboda died, Loki rejoiced. He publicly declared his right to mourning and so saved himself from Laufey finding him another wife. Even the King could not cease the mourning of a man, but he had other ways of attaining his weapons.

Mourning rights did not extend to the surface and the partnership of men, and Laufey had many supporters who were willing to participate in his experiment. After returning from his secret journey on Midgard, Loki found himself once again forced into another's private chambers, this time belonging to one of his father's most faithful generals.

Loki had never been with a man prior that night, and he remembered the blood, how badly it had _hurt_ , and throwing up on Helblindi's feet immediately afterward when his brother found him stumbling through the halls.

But Laufey succeeded, and Loki watched his belly swell and suffered his ill-equipped body's pain and trauma. He could feel the life growing within, and oh _by Ymir_ there were more than one inside him, each destined to crawl from his innards and right into his father's hands. How simple it would be to take a dagger and plunge it into...

"Laufeyson!"

Loki's eyes snapped upward into Odin's one. The Aesir King was looking at him hard, his palms flat on the desk as he leaned forward. Loki glanced down and found his hands were trembling, made all the more obvious by the jittering glass in his hand. He set it down and smoothed his hands on his lap.

"There's no need to shout, All-Father."

Odin disagreed, but did not say so. He let Loki replace the mask of composure and confidence that had slipped ever so slightly when his eyes saw elsewhere and his hands began to shake. Odin spoke his name to call him back and spare him what he would view as a humiliation, but Loki had not responded, lost for a moment in the halls of his mind. A harsher tone had been needed.

Returned to himself, Loki picked up his glass again, his hand steady, and continued as if there had been no interruption. "So you see...brother, I left no love or family behind. You did not sweep me from my home unwilling."

Odin nodded and finished his glass. He would have, _should_ have, long ago had he known. Loki was a runt, a shame upon the King's line, and the Jotnar did not take such insults, intentional or not, kindly. From the first moment they met, Odin had no pretenses that Loki's life would have been an unhappy one, but he had noticed nothing amiss with the young man.

He had not seen it when he and Loki first confronted each other in his war tent. Loki did not carry himself like the shame of his household. When they met again, in the same tent, the war weighed too heavily upon both their minds to note anything untoward. It was not until after the fighting was done, when the celebrations ceased and Asgard turned to the difficult task of settling into normalcy that must follow all wars that Odin began to notice.

In the presence of others, Loki walked like any prince should with his head held high and nothing but confidence in his steps. Yet his eyes darted about constantly, taking in every corner, every person, every door and window. When he thought none watching, he would slink through shadows and creep along the walls, sometimes moving through them, skulking about with his head always looking over his shoulder, as though expecting an ambush.

This was not normal Jotnar behavior. The Frost Giants were a proud people and did not take to skulking. Suspicion began to grow in the back of Odin's mind.

Loki spent his first days in Asgard prowling about as a wolf might inspect new territory, ensuring no obvious threats. He followed that with pranks and general mischief, annoying all Aesir within reach. He was testing them, appraising Odin's resolve. Would they turn on him for such things? If so, best he knew quickly before he became too settled in this realm.

It appealed him to few of the Aesir, and those who knew his true origins used it to back their opinion to Odin that he should never have brought Loki to Asgard. It had begun with Tyr on Jotunheim, who claimed that Loki wormed his way into their confidence and would eventually betray them, and continued into their celebrated return. He could at least trust Tyr to state his opinion but once and then bow to the wisdom of his King, unlike some others who would entreat themselves to him repeatedly, as though he changed his mind somewhere on the Bifrost.

But he did not let such things ruin his mood and appetite as the entirety of Asgard feasted and celebrated their hard-earned victory, even when his brother Lodur sat beside him and whispered his disapproval. However, Odin paid him little mind as his brother had disapproved much about the war, flying into a near fury when they took the fight from Midgard to strike at Jotunheim. Lodur did not see a tactical strategy but the abandonment of the vulnerable mortals that dwelled in that realm. For this, Odin could not truly find fault in his brother, for Lodur had been with him when they breathed life into the first of the mortals and so too did he feel the need to protect them. That didn't make his relief any less palpable when Lodur finished saying his piece and returned to his own seat at the grand table. Odin groaned when the emptied seat was promptly filled by his other brother, Hoenir, whom Odin had seen chatting with Loki from the corner of his remaining eye a few moments ago. The All-Father sighed and gestured for his brother to speak, undoubtedly about Odin's new Jotunn "pet," as Lodur had so tactfully put it.

Instead Hoenir chuckled as he sank into the chair beside his elder brother's own raised one. "What a delightful scamp," he said, took a large gulp from his drinking horn, and added, "once you get past the crazy."

"Hoenir..."

"I admit, I was a bit curious so I decided to talk to him a moment. He looked quite bored anyway." Loki had finished eating in his swift fashion some time ago, and now merely remained because he knew he should. Jotunn feasts were a misnomer, as very little time was actually spent eating. The food was brought and consumed in moments before it froze, and the rest of the night was for drinking and entertainment.

Hoenir continued, his voice dropping its light tone. "I like him, Odin, but there's something _wrong_ with him. Anyone can see that just by looking. He's a hybrid, after all."

Odin scowled at his brother. "How quickly you forget Mother."

"You know what I mean!" Hoenir hissed, "Mother was a Jotunn, but _we_ are Aesir. The children of mixed parents are one or the other, that's how it's always been. He's both, and you _know_ what that means. You should not have brought him here."

Even in the ancient days when the races had mingled freely, a joining of a Jotunn and one of the Alfar was rare, if it happened at all. Now, in these days of order, such a union as between Laufey and his Svartalfar queen sang out in a vibrant string of discord across the universe to which waiting chaos latched, followed to its origin, and in that moment had Loki been forged. A sorcerer, a child of chaos, and it would follow him wherever he went.

Had Loki been a child of the Jotnar true, then that was all he would have been. Had Laufey known this, or had it been a mere accident?

Odin sighed, taking a drink to soothe his dry throat. "Would you prefer I left him in Laufey's hands, then?"

"Of course not, but there are other options. Another realm, perhaps. There is also the Well of Eternal Sleep, it would be painless, keep him in a state of suspended animation..."

"No!" Odin snarled, louder than he intended so that nearby heads turned and Frigga, sitting beside him, lay her hand on his arm to remind him where he was. "He does not deserve that."

"I know, brother, I just wish you to be cautious. I remember how nasty those sorcerers could get when vexed."

"I assure you, I have no intention of letting him run amok."

"Of course." Hoenir wanted to say more, but his brother's tone brooked no more argument. "Well then," he lifted his drinking horn in a toast, "to your new little brother, though I don't think all of us will fit in the bed." He was referencing their childhood, when four brothers shared a bed and many a night was spent fighting over space, blanket ownership, pillows, and flailing limbs, often leading to one of the boys tumbling from the mattress. What had been nothing but frustration and anger between them then was now looked upon with fondness, as is the way with most childhood memories.

Odin had noticed the pieces of evidence Loki left scattered behind him, Hoenir had voiced them, but it was Frigga who began to slide the pieces of the puzzle together.

Upon his arrival, Frigga eyed the Jotunn prince with curiosity. She was the Queen but also the mother of Asgard, her powers sometimes taking her forward into tomorrows to see what could be, but it was her wisdom that allowed her to look backwards. How she could look at a man and know by his mannerisms the child he had once been. Whatever she saw in Loki, it had upset her enough to voice her worries to Odin.

"Be careful with him," she said, warning in her soft voice, "you know better than any how a wounded animal may strike even at those who mean to help it."

"What did you see in him?"

"Enough to suspect, my love, but no more. Just be a brother to him, he needs it."

Odin was not foolish enough to brush aside his wife's words, but he thought perhaps she exaggerated. Loki's life would not have been an easy one, but he was hardly a broken thing. Still, Laufey undoubtedly knew of his son's nature and all that it meant.

Years ago, Heimdall alerted Odin to the arrival of a gigantic serpent into the oceans of Midgard, sent from Jotunheim by the power of the Casket. The All-Father stood ready, awaiting Laufey's next move, but the serpent had only sunk below the seas and remained quiet. Even as the two races battled on Midgard, the serpent never rose. So too from Jotunheim had come the shadowed girl he'd found on Midgard and placed in Niflheim.

Laufey had been producing monsters, but Heimdall could not see how, and why was the Jotunn King casting them to Midgard to be forgotten? The first was answered when Loki was brought to his tent.

Frigga's words fluttered through his head as he watched Loki slink about, little things coming to his attention bit by bit. Loki leaned away from touch, he was uncomfortable in crowds, he kept no mirrors in his room but neither allowed the servants to assist him in dressing (he was capable of maintaining his hair while half asleep, his fingers carding through it with the rapidity of Ratatosk cleaning his face). His clothes were conservative, the collars high, the sleeves long, and he favored many-layered cotes. This was hardly worth notice as such clothes were fashionable in Asgard, especially among scholarly circles, but even upon their first meeting Loki had worn a long tunic underneath his cloak, a rare thing to be used by the Jotnar.

Even this, Odin had explained away as merely Loki's like. He'd seen the Jotunn wear only a simple tunic often as he dashed around with Thor in what he supposed was sparring. But that was it, wasn't it?

Only with Thor did Loki dress so, just as Thor was the only one Loki let truly touch him.

Because Thor was a child. He was _safe_.

Loki had been forced to marry young to a woman he'd grown to hate. Laufey had monsters appearing on Jotunheim for the first time in ages. Sorcerers had always produced fierce creatures to serve their kings, but their numbers allowed for this without undue trauma.

Laufey had only his stunted son.

The puzzle pieces fit together, crumbled, and became the mixture of dark colors that painted a disturbing picture.

Odin was a king, he understood the difficult choices that had to be made for the greater good, but that Laufey would do that to his own child for the sake of his ambitions was incomprehensible. It explained Frigga's attitude towards Loki, how she insisted he be treated as a member of the family rather than a political guest.

It explained Loki's eagerness to join Odin and leave Jotunheim and his father far behind.

Heat flushed through Odin as the father within him raged. His face betrayed nothing.

"All the better," Odin said, his mind back in the present and his voice heavy, "I am happy to have you here."

Loki narrowed his eyes and drank slowly, assessing the All-Fathers sudden moroseness. Odin decided to change the conversation by way of double meaning.

"I've been intending to bring you here for some time now, I think it can benefit us both."

"How so?" Loki's face was wary.

"You are young yet, but someday you will be King of Jotunheim. I do not know what education you received on your homeworld, but I wish to have you beside me that you may learn the ways of ruling a kingdom." Most of Loki's mischief was due to his boredom and lack of purpose, and Odin decided it was time to give him one.

"That you may train me to do your will, you mean."

The savage tone caught Odin off guard. "What?"

Loki set his glass on the desk hard so that it rang and leaned back, arms crossed and face stormy. "Let us be frank, _brother_ , for I have grown tired of playing this game. Yes, I will rule Jotunheim someday, but it will be under your persuasion. Nothing I do will be without your command. Oh, I do not blame you, I would do the same, but do not take me for a fool!"

With a sigh, Odin set down his drink and used his freed hand to rub at his temple. Where had this come from, and how long had it been festering in Loki's mind? It explained a lot. Unfortunately, it was not without basis. The All-Father had ruled the realms for a very long time, and he had indeed deposed a few rulers in order to place his own, for the sake of the peace of those realms. He'd placed enough puppet-kings in his time, but they never turned out the way he intended. They were exalted servants, not the counterpart he desired.

"I don't need nor want a puppet, Loki. What I want is an ally."

Loki was still as he regarded Odin for a long moment, save his finger that curled and tapped against his lip in thought. He spoke slowly.

"Words, when played well, like a tune, can sound so sweet to the ear. But one must not forget that they are still just noises in the air, like anything else."

Odin doubt he meant that. As a sorcerer, words were the most important of tools, defining his intents to turn ideas into truth. But he was also a Jotunn, and so to call Odin false outright was the height of rudeness, so he relied on indirect metaphors. The Jotunn use of the son and father terms were more than titles, but were often used to remind another of his place.

Odin understood regardless.

"Then we shall have to prove our intent through our actions rather than our words, won't we?"

Loki did not miss that he'd been included in that statement. "Yes, of course. And it will be as you say, for what reason have I to deny myself such an opportunity of learning from the All-Father himself?" He reached forward and reclaimed his glass, lifting it in a mock toast and finishing it in one gulp. With it, the tenseness that had formed between the two drained away and Odin poured him another glass' worth of wine. The bottle was nearly empty.

Standing, Loki moved around the desk to stand beside Odin, peering over his shoulder. He twisted his hand and the melted wax of the candles retracted into their former shapes, the wicks growing, and flame burst at their tips, illuminating the papers that Odin slid towards him.

"How is Thor faring in his classes?" Loki asked, his eyes, dark grey in the candlelight, scanning over the seemingly endless words.

"Quite well. I'm surprised he hasn't told you all about it."

"He has, but as I am skilled in the art of stating the obvious, so too am I in tuning out the babbling of children."

Odin chuckled and gathered the paperwork on which he'd been working earlier and began to update Loki on the current state of affairs in the realms.

He did not know how long they read and talked, but it was long enough as his eye grew heavy from politics and wine. Loki's hand was then placed on his shoulder, the first time he'd initiated any familiar contact with Odin.

"It's late, All-Father, you should rest."

"That I will not argue," Odin smirked and lay down the papers. He would leave them for the night and organize them later. "What about you?"

"I sleep when it suits me." Loki removed his hand and made his way towards the doors, carrying the empty wine bottle with him. His usual grace was marred by a slight drunken waver. "Good night, All-Father," he said, and opened the doors.

"Loki," Odin began, his hands folded in front of him. His words would not be appreciated, but they needed to be said.

The doors halt mid-creak as Loki looked back at him, one brow raised in question.

"Know that here in Asgard no harm will come to you, save that which you bring upon yourself."

It was a long moment that Loki's eyes bore into Odin's, sliding elsewhere as he broke down the sentence to find its meaning, and then snapping back. He said nothing.

Loki vanished through the doors into the darkness beyond and they shut behind him with a deep rumble.


	11. Sing Me a Song

The Jotnar had only four songs, and yet they could encompass any emotion or story the Frost Giants wished to express.

More specifically, the four songs were set tunes to which any lyrics could be applied, their meaning dependent upon that tune. A march to war from the Hunt song became a lament when the same lyrics were applied to the Snowfall tune. Words were of higher import in a song than the tune, so a man skilled in song could improvise the lyrics with minimal repetition of a chorus.

The Snowfall tune was the easiest and most common song, its rhythm slow and steady, allowing for the singer time to construct his lyrics, and repetitive with little deviation. Known songs were plentiful in this tune, including mourning songs and lullabies.

The Hunt too was repetitive, but where Snowfall was soft, the Hunt was bold. It was to this tune bands of hunters would sing as they traversed across the plains. To as As ear, it sounded akin to a march, and the Aesir were indeed familiar with it, as the Jotnar marched into battle under its cadence.

The sacred Spire tune's tempo and pitch rose and fell through its cycle dramatically, representing the raising of one's focus upwards to the stars as he beseeched his ancestors, and then falling in humility. This song was rarely sung outside the temples, but on occasion it could be heard under the breath of an individual after a personal victory or in the face of beauty. Women hummed its alternating tune in the crystal caverns below, where it was both beautiful and the acoustics unmatched.

The most complex was the Wind song, as it was in fact a compilation of four individual tunes that were to be strung together in the fashion of a tale. It was not true Wind if one did not perform at least one cycle of each of these four tunes: the soft Calm, the slow but rhythmic Breeze, the swift tempo of the Gale, and the wild and alternating Fury, always sung loud and fast.

In the Jotunn King's court, many were allowed presence, but only those who had proven themselves skilled in the art of speech were permitted to do so. A song was required as proof. A man who could not improvise lyrics well could sing a known song and still be given his due, but his future words would not carry even half as much weight as those who sang their own.

The first day Loki was in his father's court, he stood before the gathered men and readied himself. His height rendered him unnoticed and the loud voices continued on until Laufey raised his hand for silence. There were laws even a king could not break, and the right to try to prove oneself worthy to speak was one of them, much as he would prefer Loki not be present at all.

The hall grew quiet and all eyes turned to Loki, some men peering over the shoulders of those in front of them to see him. He was nervous, but he dare not show it. Snowfall was the most common tune, the easiest, then the Hunt, and this was the one Laufey expected his son to sing, as it so often inspired those who heard it. But Loki was a prince, the King's heir, and a runt cursed to be inferior in all he did.

Loki could not merely be, he had to be _better_.

His voice burst from his throat, loud, almost screeching, and wild. He did not miss the look of surprise on many in the crowd. He was attempting the Wind song, and starting with the Fury. Wind was a story, and like most stories that required it, usually began calm and slow, building to the climax, and then softening to its end, be it a good or sorrowful one. Not Loki.

Loki sang of the greatest of all stories, the history of the Jotnar, and that tale began in chaos. He sang of the Ginnungagap, of fire and ice, of cauldrons and rivers that turned to mist. He sang of Ymir, the First and Most Powerful, and the coming of the lesser beings. He told of the slaughter of Ymir by the jealous Aesir and of the survival of Bergelmir who fathered them all. He sang of the Serpent of Chaos, who coiled about Yggdrasil's branches and made them eternally waver, never settling.

Loki's voice slowed slightly, the wild words gaining rhythm in the Gale tune. He sang of how the races allied themselves in the face of chaos and marched to war. The Aesir swung their swords, the sorcerers cast their spells, the Alfar forged weapons for all of them. They traveled across Yggdrasil leaving order and blood in their wake. He sang of the Serpent's fall, and how its landing shattered the Ginnungagap and the battle was won.

Here Loki's voice fell, slow and so quiet that many leaned close to hear his Calm. The war was won, but at what a price. He sang of the loss of life, the betrayal of the Aesir, and of the death of the sorcerers who had slain their own serpent mother. Without the Ginnungagap, that Chasm of Chasms, fire, ice, and mist coiled up the trunk of Yggdrasil and settled into its branches and the Nine Realms were formed.

Raising his voice into the slow but steady Breeze, Loki sang of the realms, from cold Niflheim below to golden Asgard high above. He sang of Jotunheim last, describing its beauty and culture, and though it nestled itself amidst the branches lower than Asgard, it was truly the greatest of all the realms.

So ended Loki's song, and those gathered in the court hailed their prince, for he had earned the use of their ears.

Laufey sat through their congratulations, what a talented son he had sired, what a king would he be to continue his noble line, suffering in silence. There was no pride in his child, no congratulations or joy. Once, he may have allowed such things in his heart, but then the image of the laughing little beast, covered in blood and standing over his slain mother, would appear at the forefront of his thoughts, and any possible affection would turn to lead.

After that, Loki sang rarely for an audience. He was well aware that, while everyone praised his use of words, no one enjoyed actually hearing him. Loki's voice was atrocious. The Jotnar sang so deep and low that the stones themselves would vibrate, as though they wished to join. Loki's small size denied him this. He sounded like a lizard.

(He would also learn from Helblindi that when he sang his accent would become apparent. Loki had worked hard to quell it and so was properly mortified. His mother was a foreigner who'd been decent in speaking the Jotunn language at best, and Loki's speech early in his life had suffered for it. He knew the words and how to say them, but his pronunciation was marred by Svartalfr accents.

Fortunately, the more time he spent among other Frost Giants, the less obvious his accent became as he learned the proper Jotunn pronunciations. Once on the surface, he managed to rid himself of it entirely, or so he thought. His brothers were quick to point out that it was discernable whenever he became impassioned. Loki was suitably annoyed.)

Not that Loki wouldn't make use of his high-pitched, 'womanly' voice. He would amuse himself by creeping up behind newly ascended young men and letting loose a high ululation. In habit, the men would whirl around in terror, expecting their angry mothers and only finding a laughing Loki. He wasn't popular with the young men.

Loki did find himself an audience in Byleistr, who was enamored by Loki's unique way of combining Jotunn and Svartalfr song patterns. The Svartalfar were the opposite of the Jotnar in that while they found the lyrics of a song meaningful, it was in the singing itself they found their pleasure. Many nights did Loki's mother sing him to sleep, and he remembered none of the words, but he could hum the tunes perfectly. He would tweak one of the four songs when he was alone, extend a note here, alter a pitch there, hold the last...

Byleistr caught him at it one day, and Loki snarled at him and fell silent, but with a bit of pleading, continued. From them on, Loki sang for Byleistr when he asked, and even Helblindi would listen, though with far less enthusiasm.

It was years before the three of them perfected their harmonizing, and those in the citadel who heard them found it a strange song indeed.

 

Thor happily trailed after his mother and told her all about Jotunn songs, to which she listened with a patient smile. (She wondered if Loki was aware that Thor related just about all he told him to anyone willing to listen.) It was when Thor offered to sing her one himself she sent him off to play.

Frigga encouraged Thor's interest in Loki for the same reasons as Odin, as well as her own. Thor was a excitable child, and forcing him to sit down for lessons or, worse yet, to study, was proving difficult. She was hoping some of Loki's calm and inclination to think would rub off on her son, so that he could grow to be both a strong and clever ruler, like his father. Thor was also good for Loki, in his own way. If Loki was busy chasing the boy around, he had less time to grow idle and start taking it out on poor bystanders.

But now she began to wonder if the two should spend some time apart. Frigga had no intention of truly separating them, but the fact was they spent too much time together, and that couldn't be healthy for either. Thor was making friends his own age, yes, but only in the classroom. When he was released he went straight to Loki and didn't look back. When Loki wasn't available or simply didn't wish to play, Thor would mope about, latching on to Frigga if he could.

She had no doubt he was looking for the Jotunn prince at that moment.

"You should take Loki with you to Alfheim," she said when she next saw her husband.

"I was already thinking it, but what is your reasoning?"

"Thor."

"Ah." Odin didn't need her to elaborate, but she did anyway.

"It would be good for him to be without Loki for a while, to make friends his own age. What will he do when Loki leaves us?"

"You know as well as I that will be no time soon." He reached out, teasing a lock of his wife's hair between his fingers. "Loki will accompany me. I've been meaning to get him more familiar with the state of the realms, and I think a visit to Svartalfheim will be good for him. I know he has questions about his mother's homeworld, though he has not voiced them."

Relieved, Frigga kissed her husband chastely, but with a lingering promise for more later before she turned away. She hadn't gone far when Odin called after her:

"However, _you_ can be the one to inform our son of this."

Frigga cursed.


	12. Alfheim and Other Stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a point in this chapter that makes reference to the meaning of Loki's name. From what I understand, "Loki" could possibly mean either 'air' or 'to close.' However, I use it here to mean 'fire,' based on this tidbit:
> 
> _The meaning of Laufey is less clear but is generally taken to be "full of leaves; as Fárbauti means "dangerous hitter," there is a possible nature mythological interpretation with lightning hitting the leaves or needles of a tree to give rise to fire._

Thor practically squealed in delight as his father and Loki rode past, leading the delegation toward the Bifrost. He had not seen Loki in his magnificent horned helmet and armor since the day he'd first arrived in Asgard. Granted, the armor was not the heavy plated campaign armor he'd worn then, but the far less cumbersome ceremonial armor worn for celebrations and, such as in this case, diplomatic missions, but he looked no less impressive. The original design had been silver with varying shades of blue and black, like Jotunheim, but Loki had instead opted for subtle browns and greens to counteract the gold. These colors he had come to learn and love on Asgard.

Thor called out and waved his hands, jumping in place. Loki saw him and, brows arched in amusement, waved his fingers in the young prince's direction. Thor squealed again and wrapped his arms around himself in delight, but as the delegation left Gladsheim and passed through the gate to the rainbow bridge, his smile faded.

He had come to accept that, as an adult, Loki sometimes had other things to do than play around, but if Thor was _real quiet_ , sometimes Loki would let him sit with him. If anything, Thor made a game of seeing how many different faces of annoyance he could get Loki to make. Even on days when Loki would disappear into the mountains to do whatever he did out there, Thor would at least see him once in passing.

Thor never liked it when his father went away, but it was something to which he had become sadly accustomed. This would be the first time Loki would be gone since he'd arrived, and while that was not a long time ago, to a child like Thor, it was as though his Jotunn prince had always been there.

The crowds began to disperse, leaving Thor alone with his mother and some Einherjar. He had his classes soon, but he couldn't muster up any excitement for them. Once they ended for the day, Thor would be on his own. He clasped his hands, twisting his fingers anxiously.

"Come back soon," he whispered.

 

The Bifrost deposited the delegation in an open field on a bright, sunny day. Each warrior took a moment to calm their disturbed mounts; the horses never took well to the violent form of Aesir transportation. Even Odin's seasoned beast, a black monster of a stallion, turned its head and bit at Loki's own in frustration. Loki tried not to yelp as his horse reared back a bit. He hated horses. He'd considered himself an accomplished rider on Jotunheim, but the Jotnar used sensible mounts, such as bears, who were hardier beasts and not prone to _rearing_. Riding Fenrir had been a terror, and a feat Loki would not have been able to accomplish had his son not been invested in keeping his father on his back, but Loki's trust in his child gave him his confidence. He held none for the beast currently beneath him. The other Aesir had a good laugh at his expression of panic.

It was a day's journey to the city of the Ljosalfar where Freyr had offered the use of his hall. Long ago, when the Bifrost had first been constructed, it had led to the city directly, but as the ages passed and the realms turned about each other and shifted, so too did the landing site change, for while space and dimension twisted about the rainbow bridge, the beam remained a straight line and a single moment both. To force the realm itself to bend and twist would be its destruction. So the Aesir rode, enjoying the fresh air and beautiful weather of Alfheim.

It was warm, and already Loki could feel the sweat beginning to pool underneath his new armor. He was grateful for his cloak that, while warm itself, kept the beating sun off his back. The helmet, on the other hand, was fast becoming intolerable, and he pulled it off, hooking one of the curving horns on a strap of his saddle, letting it hang. He would replace it once they neared the city.

The Aesir passed the time telling tales and singing songs, and to these Loki listened intently. They were a warrior people, and their songs reflected this. A most important theme was of a worthy death in battle, and this was another way Loki supposed the Aesir and the Jotnar were not that different. The difference lay in death itself, where the worthy warriors were carried to Valhalla. The Jotnar did not speak of the dead outside the lives they lived, for to do so was to presume knowledge of that which they did not have. They all had their own ideas of what came after death -from elaborate worlds beyond to nothing at all- that they would whisper to each other in small groups in the dark as children, but to speak such things aloud would be insulting to those who'd passed. It was rude.

"Jotunn!" one of the Aesir just behind Loki and Odin called, "Tell us a tale from your land! Come now, don't be shy, little Jotunn!"

Speaking of rude and dashing headlong into justifiable slaughter. Baring his teeth, Loki was about to snap his fingers and make the man's horse transport out from under him when Odin placed a hand on his shoulder. The All-Father turned in his saddle and set his baleful glare upon the soldier, berating him without a word. The offending As paled.

"Lord Loki," he amended, ducking his head as though attempting to make himself smaller, "perhaps we could hear a tale from your homeland? We love our stories much, but they've been told many times. Something new would be wondrous to hear."

Loki snort to himself and didn't deign to answer. It was Tyr who nudged his horse forward until he rode beside Loki, grinning beneath his mustache.

"Come now, Trickster, I can't get you to shut up most days, and now you choose silence when you might have something worthwhile to give?"

Loki glowered at him. There was no love nor even like between he and Tyr, but they had fought beside each other and that in itself had forged something akin to a bond, even if it mostly consisted of insults. In fact, he had fought alongside most of the warriors of the delegation. There were a few faces he did not know, replacing those lost in the war, most likely, like the one who insulted him. The elder warriors knew who and what he was, and that knowledge had apparently been passed on to the new men. No surprises, in war or politics.

The men he'd fought beside were looking to him in interest, waiting. Loki sighed.

"Does the All-Father wish to hear a tired Jotunn tale?" he asked, dismissing the decision from his hands.

"Indeed he does," Odin said, a grin of his own etching into the corner of his mouth.

"Very well." Loki thought a moment, sifting through the various stories he'd remembered throughout his life to find one appropriate for an Aesir audience. It was difficult. He finally recalled one that could be acceptable enough, with some omissions.

"This was a tale told to me by Thrym, my father's brother," he began, as was appropriate.

The story began with the As Skirnir, who, like many Aesir, had heard of the beauty of Jotnar women, and wished to possess one as his wife. He and a faithful band traveled to Jotunheim to the hall of Suttung, brother of King Mogthrasir, and a predecessor of Thrym's in ownership of the hall. Suttung, wishing to maintain the tenuous peace between the Jotnar and the Aesir, welcomed them and made them comfortable. Skirnir told Suttung of his desire to marry the most lovely of Jotunn maidens, Gunnlod.

(It was here Loki omitted much from the tale that described the Aesir's brutality and the fact that they all but took over the hall, refusing to leave until Skirnir had Gunnlod, even threatening Suttung. It was Suttung's determination to maintain his brother's peace that kept him from unleashing his guard against the Aesir brutes.)

Now Gunnlod was Suttung's daughter, and he could not bear to give her away to Skirnir. He tried to dissuade the As, offering gold and treasures, secrets of lost ages, and other, willing women. He even pondered cursing his daughter to ugliness to save her. But none of these would work and Suttung did not know what to do. He would either lose his daughter or incite war.

Fortunately, the heroes Gymir and Loki of Utgard were passing by on King's business. Suttung begged them for their aid, offering them anything they could desire. It was Utgarda Loki who came up with the solution. They would disguise the warrior Gymir as Gunnlod. The Aesir had never seen a Jotunn maiden before and would not know the difference.

It was during this part of Loki's tale that the As soldiers groaned. A warrior was a warrior regardless of his realm, and they sympathized with Gymir for the humiliation he suffered. Yet their groans turned to laughter as Loki described the fierce Jotunn bedecked in skirts and veils.

Gymir, disguised as Gunnlod, was presented to Skirnir during a feast. Utgarda Loki, removed of his sorcerers' horns and dressed as a guard, was to escort them back to the Bifrost site. As the feast progressed, Gymir forgot he was to play the part of a lady, eating and behaving as a man, and an increasingly frustrated Utgarda Loki had to smooth over his mistakes with words, promising Skirnir it was Gunnlod's excitement that made her act thus.

Loki had to pause for a moment until the Aesir calmed their laughter enough so that he could be heard again.

Utgarda Loki also informed Skirnir that Gunnlod wished to marry in Asgard, to which Skirnir happily agreed. It was with relief that Suttung watched the Aesir leave his hall and head out into the wilderness, a disguised Gymir among them and Utgarda Loki leading the way.

The story ended in Asgard, of all places, within the Bifrost Observatory. The line of guards that preceded Heimdall watched as Skirnir and his band emerged, quickly noting the lack of a Jotunn bride. When asked about it, Skirnir visibly shuddered and said:

"I couldn't help it, I _had_ to look at her. One peek under her veil, that's all. Let me tell you, the beauty of Jotunn maidens is greatly exaggerated!"

The tale ended, Loki fell silent. The Aesir behind him laughed until tears sprung to their eyes. As their laughter quieted to scattered chuckles, he pointed to one of them to pass on the storytelling. This man nodded and hiccupped before starting another tale.

Tyr, still beside Loki, gave him a hearty slap on the shoulder, nearly sending him tumbling.

"Had I known the Jotnar had a sense of humor, perhaps I would have asked for a tale sooner," he said, then reined his horse back until he was riding behind his king once again.

Loki was only too glad to have the attention of the men away from him again. He rode in silence, absently listening to the continuing songs behind him.

"I knew your namesake."

He glanced up at Odin. "Hm?"

"Loki of Utgard. It was brief, our meeting, and I was but a young man, but it was meaningful to me. It was he who gave me Gungnir."

"I see."

Odin had expected some interest on Loki's part, as he always was when things of magic and sorcery were involved, but if anything he had grown subdued. Silence grew between them, awkward and misshapen, and when Loki spoke again it was with bitterness.

"I was not named for that Loki."

"Ah. I assumed Laufey had named you after him, in light of what you were."

"No one, including myself, knew what I was until after I was declared a man. When Utgarda Loki was named, they undoubtedly knew of his nature. I, on the other hand, was so named as the bane of my people, of my father's line."

Odin had nothing to say to that. He was aware of Loki's low placement due to his size, and naming him for the flames, a scourge to a people of the ice, would be as if he had named Thor after a deadly plague. Laufey had no compunction about reminding Loki what he was by even his name.

(What Loki did not know, was that it had been his mother, defying Jotunn tradition, who had named him. At the moment of his birth, he had emerged from her pale and warm, until the cold reached into him and his Jotunn physiology reacted, covering him in a thick blue skin. But now she knew, as she cradled him to her breast, that beneath the cold blue was warmth, unlike his father. She thought of the warmth of the hearths and forges of her home, but more than that, what this little one could mean for her. Revenge.

No, not the placid flames of home would he be, but wildfire, burning through the whole of Jotunheim until it was purged to claim a newly purified throne.

It was his mother who'd named him Loki.)

"Was it that Loki, then, that made you so inclined to strive for peace with my people, as useless an endeavor as it is?" Loki asked.

Odin looked at him a moment, before his pale, singular eye slid back to the road. "No, that was my mother."

"Of course," Loki murmured before he fell silent. It was a long moment that Loki reached to his side, fingers brushing over one of his knives. "Isn't it always?"

The two brothers heard more laughing in song behind them, but said nothing more until the city of the Ljosalfar came into view.

 

The tables of Freyr's hall were laden with delicate and complex dishes, colorful and fantastic in their presentation that would put even a feast of Asgard to shame. But where the Aesir feasts were simple they were also hearty: meats, cheeses, and breads heaped upon reinforced tables for many hungry and inebriated warriors. The meals of the Ljosalfar were much like themselves, beautiful to behold but, as far as Loki was concerned, consisting of little substance. He'd picked his way through several dishes yet remained ravenous. More than that, this slow manner of eating was upsetting his stomach; the constant influx of minimal substance was going to give him an ulcer. He stole a roll from Odin's plate, slathering it in gravy and steaming fat from a serving tray, and swallowed it whole.

Odin gave him a look, and Loki gave him one right back. When Loki sat at a proper, civilized table again he would behave with civility.

Upon their arrival, the Aesir had been shown to the lavish guest quarters and then given a proper welcome feast. While the talks would begin tomorrow, Freyr began the feast with promises of goodwill and introductions. It was then that Odin, as though remembering that Loki was not Aesir and did not speak the All-Tongue, turned to him and asked:

"Will you be able to understand for tomorrow?"

Loki smiled just slightly, the very face of confidence. "I speak my mother's language, and while the Ljosalfar may claim otherwise it is very similar. I understand well enough."

Odin nodded and returned his attention to Freyr while Loki struggled through the speeches. The truth was that while he did learn from his mother, one woman did not a language make and he had not spoken it since his mother's death. Loki had to admit to himself that his vocabulary was woefully inadequate, and between that and the linguistic differences between the Ljosalfar and Svartalfar he found himself floundering. It was only by combining what he could glean from their speech and the responses given by the All-Tongue speaking Aesir he was able to follow the conversations at all. He would not be speaking tomorrow.

Not that he expected otherwise. Odin had brought him to observe and gain an understanding of politics in the other realms, not because Loki had anything to contribute to old Alfar disputes. There was also the fact that anything he could say would be tarnished by his Jotunn accent, and wouldn't that just be a fine thing to explain? Loki was both Jotnar and Svartalfar, neither who would be welcome at the table of the Ljosalfar.

For once, Loki saw the wisdom in keeping his mouth shut. No surprises in war and politics indeed, unless it gave you advantage over the other side. Or it was something they simply didn't need to know.

Speeches and welcomes finished, the food was brought and Loki began the arduous task of seeking something edible amongst the decorations and fruits. When he snuck one too many items from Odin's plate he received a forceful blow from the butt of Gungnir on his toe in warning.

The Alfar were a strange people who drank only water with their meals, but once the plates were cleared the wine poured freely. Servants dashed about ensuring no one's goblet became empty.

Odin made a toast to his hosts and drank, delighting in the light taste of the finest wine Alfheim had to offer, for they would serve the All-Father nothing less. He then turned to Loki, who always sat on his good eye's side, and watched as his enjoyment was considerably less. The last time Loki had found his drink unpleasant…

"I hope you do not intend to stab the server this time. I don't believe the Ljosalfar would appreciate it."

Loki took no offense, seeing Odin's subdued amusement. "Only if he annoys me."

"Then we are done for. Know that I will not cover for you."

"No? But what are brothers for? I would do so for you."

"You would not."

"Well, if it forwarded my plans, I would."

"Your blatant honesty is delightful."

Loki accepted Odin's sarcasm gracefully. "Thank you, I do so hate being predictable."

They could laugh about it now, as no true harm had been done then. Loki was not a fool to actually harm one of Odin's men, but he had held the blade to his throat closely, his pride demanding nothing less.

Many times Odin learned the hard lesson that even one such as he, whose knowledge and wisdom spanned ages and realms, could forget certain cultural factors and not realize what until after the offense had been committed. In outright war with Jotenheim, he pushed such knowledge of Jotunn etiquette to the back of his mind and focused instead on victory.

It was after said victory, as the warriors of Asgard packed up their camps to withdraw from the conquered Jotunheim, that Odin called his generals and best warriors to him and the victory mead was poured. Loki, standing near the All-Father as always, was given his own drinking horn. The proclamation for Asgard was given and the men drank.

Odin barely managed a gulp before there was a clatter and a cry followed by scuffling. Loki had thrown down his drinking horn as though it burned him and grabbed the servant who had given it to him, a blade at the startled man's throat.

"Is this the gratitude of Asgard, then?" Loki snarled, his green eyes baleful and looking only at Odin.

Weapons were drawn as soon as the blade leapt to Loki's fingers, all pointing to the Jotunn turncoat. Tyr's cry of "traitor!" echoed everyone's thoughts.

"Stay your hand!" Odin roared over the commotion, forcing his generals to step back, though their weapons remained trained on Loki.

This was not an attack by the Jotunn prince, who was not so stupid as to make his strike while Odin was surrounded by his best, much less waste it on a servant. No, he'd reacted to the mead. The liquid was splattered across the patterned stone, already freezing at the edges, and Odin cursed himself for his forgetfulness.

The Jotnar did not take their drinks cold. They took meticulous care in maintaining their internal temperatures and while a cold drink could not harm them, they generally didn't find it a pleasant feeling. The insulating hide of a Jotunn made it difficult for him to benefit from external heat should he become cold. Granted, the raised markings that carried blood close to the surface allowed for some temperature penetration, keeping them from overheating, but never enough to cause actual freezing. (This was why a Frost Giant would suffer discomfort in warm climates, when otherwise his insulating skin would protect him. This was also why the runes on a Giant's skin were relatively sensitive.)

Hot water was the basis of every Jotunn drink, save mead, reserved only for feasts. When the food had been eaten and the drinking and entertainment began, great pitchers of mead would be set out, and specially trained servants (the Jotnar of the servant caste, never the foreign thralls from previous conquests) would dash about and plunge ensorcelled hot pokers into the pitchers to keep the mead hot.

A cold drink would not harm a Jotunn, but the meaning was there, and to serve a cold drink of mead during a gathering was to place great insult upon the recipient.

As far as Jotunn culture was concerned, Odin had just declared before his generals that he wished Loki dead.

The only way for Loki to counter this insult was to kill the one who delivered the drink. He had yet to do so. The blade was at the poor servant's throat, but did not draw blood. Loki was waiting, whether for an explanation, a way out, or something else was unknown, but Odin could see the betrayal in his eyes.

To the surprise of the other Aesir, it was Odin who offered apologies and explanation, and once given, Loki released the shaken but unharmed servant. It took considerably more for the tension to ease up and by then the moment the Aesir were striving for was lost.

It had been no laughing matter at the time, but Odin and Loki found they could look back on that particular incident with amusement. They quickly learned they were alone in that.

The feast ended as food, drink, and travel left everyone yawning. Both Freyr and Odin stood for final pleasantries and then everyone retired to their quarters.

Loki was alone. His room was more windows than walls, all open to allow the warm evening breeze access. Like the food, the furniture was light in build but complex, and Loki wasn't sure if what he was currently sitting on was a couch or the bed. That was a minor inconvenience to when he discovered that there was no bath, only a strange closet of varnished wood and glass that poured water upon the occupant like rain. Unable to risk his Jotunn form, he suffered through it, hands pressed against the glass until his initial discomfort subsided.

Once clean, Loki dressed himself in a simple tunic and relaxed before an unlit fire. The night was too warm to bother and the room so open that the moon alone was light enough. It took him several minutes to realize he was waiting for the familiar padding of little Asa feet as Thor came to beg a final story or trick before he was shooed back to his own bedroom.

Loki cursed at his pathetic habits, threw off his tunic, and climbed into bed.

 

The Aesir-Vanir war had ended when both sides grew tired of the fighting and agreed instead on alliance and unification. But hurts of the war were still fresh and so Odin made a grand gift of Alfheim to a young Freyr to help smooth relations.

Loki wondered what exactly the Alfar had thought of _that_ agreement.

It turned out they thought very little of it. The Ljosalfar were free spirited and kept such restrictive things as government and law simplistic, mostly living by their own instinctive morals. They spent their time gardening, tending their forests, and dancing through the mists from which they were born. So long as Freyr respected this, they were perfectly happy to let Vanir hands conduct the majority of their politics.

Not so the Svartalfar. They maintained their own realm with no influence from Freyr, and so long as they kept to themselves he let them be. This was no longer the case, though both sides were pointing to the other for fault.

The two realms had been warring for as long as anyone could remember. The Alfar had been one race, long ago, but a cataclysm that's specifics were lost to time had separated them. When they met again, Ljosalfar and Svartalfar, they had only animosity for the other and that unnamed hatred remained to this day, held and amplified by all the wars fought since then. But unlike the Aesir and the Vanir, the Alfar did not grow tired of their incessant fighting. The other realms did.

When the wars of the Alfar spilled outward, threatening the peace of the other realms, they found themselves in sudden disfavor. Both sides cried out for aid, and both were rejected (even Jotunheim, needing wood and metal from the two realms, chose to support neither). In the end, the remaining realms, united under a newly ascended Odin, cut all trade with the Ljosalfar and the Svartalfar until the warring ceased.

The truce that formed between the two races of the Alfar was unsteady and hardly peaceful, but it kept them apart and quiet, and had for the passing ages. Recent events had changed all that, and now both sides pulled out ancient blades and wait. A family of Ljosalfar had been discovered, slain in their home, with the wounds and markings of the Svartalfar blazoned across their flesh like bloody signatures. The Ljosalfar had barely cried out in fury for this when the Svartalfar declared accusation in return. A family of their own had been murdered in the same fashion.

Freyr had called upon the All-Father to help him in this matter, hoping to discover the cause of these murders and find settlement between the realms before war broke out. Odin agreed to travel to the two realms to speak with each individually. Freyr welcomed this, and even Malekith, ruler of the Svartalfar, was willing, though he'd grumbled loudly when Odin announced he'd go to Alfheim first.

So here they were, seated in the council chamber of the Ljosalfar listening to an endless stream of Alfar officials babble on about suffered hurts and the unproven whispers of Svartalfar invasion. They presented the All-Father and Freyr their gathered evidence that showed, without doubt, the Svartalfar hand in the murders.

Loki's head ached with his constant struggle to understand their speech. He finally gave up and let their musical language flow past him, watching their eyes for momentary shifts or the fiddling of fingers that told what was nervousness and what was a lie. He could understand the language of the body so much easier. Occasionally Loki looked to Odin, no easier to fool than himself, who would meet his eye with raised brow in question and Loki would nod just slightly. There were _liars_ here.

Loki also found himself watching Freyr, Vanir lord of Alfheim. He was beginning to understand why the Ljosalfar followed him so willingly. He was well spoken and quick with his thoughts, but more than that, Freyr was beautiful.

It was not the majestic, godlike beauty of the Aesir, but a subtle, natural beauty that was there when one was ready to see it. The Vanir were no less beautiful than their Aesir cousins, but merely another shade of it. Loki alone, surrounded by Aesir, Vanir, and Alfar, was the proverbial excrement stain on a pure white bear pelt amongst such beauty.

Loki did not consider himself attractive in any respects. He did not take this harshly as he'd accepted it long ago, when he'd run to his mother as a child, crying when his siblings had chased him home. He leapt into his mother's arms, sobbing that his brothers and sisters had laughed at him and called him ugly. She kissed him, stroked his hair gently and called him precious, her beloved, and then, because she never lied to him to spare his feelings, said:

"Because you are, my love."

So he accepted it, because it was no longer an insult but a mere fact, and Loki could deal with facts. He was ugly and there was nothing to be done for it, so he put his efforts to other things. It made sense, really. He was both Jotunn and Svartalfr as well as neither. He was too soft in form and face for any Jotunn to find him attractive, but far too coarse for Alfar tastes. Loki was Loki and that was that.

On the other hand, that never stopped him from wearing only the best whenever he could. Just because he was ugly did not mean he couldn't make himself look good. His clothes had been made from the finest materials, jewels and silvered pelts plaited into his kilts. Even his plain long tunic was made from the finest wools from Vanaheim. An ugly creature he may be, but he was a princely one and made sure none forgot it.

He still found himself uncomfortable sitting amongst the most beautiful races of the Nine Realms. Loki never liked to have his disadvantages rubbed in his face.

Only once had Loki truly lamented his ugliness. It had been during his nine years of peace, well after he'd successfully slammed shut the iron door that kept his madness at bay in the back of his mind, though now and again he could hear skittering and scratching at the door from behind.

The light season was at its peak above the surface and Loki, without a wife and blessedly ignored by his father for the time being, had grown bored. He spent his time amusing himself with childish pranks upon his unsuspecting people. The market became one of his haunts, and it was there he spotted the young woman at her stall of trinkets.

She was petite, not much larger than he, and while she was not beautiful in the way that Jotunn women were famed, the had a prettiness about her that intrigued him. Loki, of course, wished at that moment to annoy her.

Willing the stones to obey him, he formed them into a snake and sent it slithering behind her, intent on biting her ankle to startle her. The woman saw it before it could strike and with one word and a gesture she fettered it to the floor, leaving the snake to writhe and hiss at her. She laughed then, not in mockery or triumph, but in appreciation. She praised Loki on the detail and lifelike quality of the serpentine construct when he finally came forward, and asked him to show her how to do so herself.

Her name was Sigyn, and day after day did Loki find himself at her stall. They talked of only magic at first, though as time passed they found other subjects, and Loki would feel a foreign stirring in his chest.

With no wife, Loki, like other unmarried men, had no permanent residence underground and spent the night wherever he could, usually climbing up into the exposed ice on the ceiling of certain caverns and forming himself a small alcove within. As he tried to sleep, he would think of Sigyn and feel true shame at his appearance. And if only he could be _taller_.

(Upon first learning to shape-shift, Loki had tried to make himself as a true Jotunn, but each time he cast the spell he would find himself the same as he ever was. He eventually gave up.)

Sigyn was kind to him without pity, respectful of his title without trying to gain favor from it, and she was well spoken and clever in her own way, skilled in magic. Loki could have no better wife.

It was as if a small bird had begun fluttering about his innards, and with it took his thoughts into strange bouts of imagination. As soon as he was able, he would go to the surface and hunt for her the finest of wolves, he would shower her in all his jewels and gold until she said yes to his overtures. He was an ugly runt and very young, but he was a _prince_ , surely that meant something? Surely she would agree to his courtship.

Then Loki remembered exactly _what_ would be required of him as her husband. The little bird that fluttered within him was crushed under stone and ice, his breath would hitch and a tremor began to run through his hands.

Loki did not seek out Sigyn again.

It was well past midday when Odin called for a recess. Loki wait until after the Alfar officials left the chamber, noting the ones who lied to the All-Father's face. Some had been quite good at it, but none could beat a Jotunn songsmith in a game of words. He would compare notes on the matter with Odin as soon as the As King finished his quiet discussion with Freyr, and then Loki would show him how a sorcerer could really be put to use. He was nothing but a waste of space here.

Loki gathered Odin's papers and followed him out of the council chamber. He was tired, and he had done little all day, so he imagined his blood-brother was already touching exhaustion. This was not an aspect of being king to which Loki wait with any anticipation.

Parting ways with Freyr who promised to have the midday meal sent to Odin's quarters, the All-Father was not surprised to find Loki following behind. He could only imagine that Loki was feeling well out of his element in this place as he could not recall the Jotunn prince ever being both so quiet and acquiescent.

"I've suspected you've had something on your mind all day," Odin said, pausing at the doorway to his guest quarters.

"Suspected?" Loki snort in annoyance, "I _always_ have something on my mind. Usually more than one something. Was I wrong in assuming this was true for most?"

Odin sighed in frustration and ushered his obnoxious brother into the room.


	13. Shapes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your kind kudos and comments! I hope you enjoy this chapter, pain in the butt as it was to write.

"What are your thoughts?"

Odin wait for Loki's reply as his blood-brother gagged up the bones of the cooked fowl he'd swallowed whole. Nibbling on one of the fruits Loki refused to touch, Odin suspected he wasn't going to be eating any meat on this journey so long as Loki was anywhere near him during meals.

Loki pulled the larger half of the furcula from his mouth ("Oh, I get a wish!") and belched behind the back of his hand. "There is certainly more going on than some members of the court would have us believe. The murders were real enough, so what is there to hide and why?" He chose a pointed bone and began to pick his teeth. "How well do you trust Freyr? I cannot read him."

"I have known Freyr since he was a babe, there are few so trustworthy as he. And even if he were involved, he would not have called for my aid."

"Unless he was trying to look innocent by doing so."

"No, were that his plan, he would not have asked for my help until after the war began, when my focus would be to end the fighting rather than its reasons. He would have ample time to erase any proofs against him before then."

"If you say so."

Leaving the rind upon the plate, Odin leaned back in his seat, his hand habitually moving to Gungnir. "Liars in the court or not, the evidence against the Svartalfar is sound, and all have said their piece. There is little else to be found here until we reach Svartalfheim."

"No," Loki pondered, half to himself, "there is one voice we have not yet heard."

"And who would that be?"

"The people. The common man and woman of this realm. I don't know what they're saying, and that is a big piece of the puzzle."

"Witnesses of the common class were brought forward, Loki. Were you listening?"

Loki sighed, his voice harsh and insulting enough that Odin glared at him. "Witnesses speak of the events alone they were called for, forced into the eyes of their betters and so watching their words. The eyes of the people as a whole are everywhere but their whispers stop at the gate. You Aesir and Alfar separate yourselves from your commoners because without your vestments and materials you are indistinguishable. I am Jotunn, all that I am is written upon my very flesh, so it is with any man. We do not segregate ourselves. You are like our women, unmarked and born not knowing who you are."

"Free to choose who we are, you mean. And," Odin added dryly, "we'd rather have our women than men of other rank."

Loki smirked, "Fair enough."

"Furthermore, you forget who your brother is. I hear the people of Asgard, do not insinuate I am deaf to their wants and needs."

"I did not mean to do so, obviously," Loki said, eyes wide with apology he didn't mean, "You are the All-Father, highest in all the realms, after all. You are the exception, but not all kings have Thought and Memory by their sides," at this, he gestured to the two ravens perched on the windowsill, "or an all-seeing Heimdall at their gates. Heimdall is not here, and, if I may, my brother, everyone knows of the ravens of the All-Father."

"You're dancing around a point, Loki, if you are going to make it, do so."

"Secrets will not be whispered where they can be heard by known spies. I am of no use to you in the council, but I _can_ be another set of eyes and ears. I can bend my shape so that I am unknown amidst the Ljosalfar, hearing all they have to say in the safety of their own kind."

Indeed he could, and this was an idea Odin had pondered himself. Loki's desire was also more than a wish to have purpose, but a chance to stretch his legs. He was a shape-shifter, a sorcerer by birth, and many seemed to forget the link between the mind and body and the discipline that entailed. Like any athlete in such things, Loki grew tired of the same routine and wished to push his skills to their limits and advance them. He had little chance to do so shifting between a Jotunn and an As, and Odin recognized the waste. Loki was the most advanced shape-shifter for his age the All-Father had ever met.

The art of taking on the form of another individual was illusionary, and one only had to have a good look at their objective to do it. The spell would reach out to those around the caster and trick their own minds into filling in any gaps or inconsistencies the illusion may have. But to take on a form unique to the caster of another species was not illusionary at all, but a changing of flesh from one thing to another. This could not be done without a source to guide the spell; a piece of the chosen species from which to derive the engineering of the new form.

Some shape-shifters drank blood, others carried or bit pieces of bone, while others made bracelets of hair or skin. Loki had merely touched him.

Maintaining the change was easy, but to make it so the spell was highly complex. To save energy, any facets of the original form that could transfer from one species to another was not changed. Loki's face and shape were passable for an As and so remained unchanged, the same for his black hair. What remained to be reforged took traits from its source, Odin himself.

In this, Loki truly was his brother. From one touch Loki gleaned knowledge of the lineage of Odin's flesh, his Asa form wrought from the line of Bor as surely as Odin and his brothers themselves.

Far too well. In a war tent on another world, as Loki gripped the Aesir King's arm and washed from himself his Jotunn nature for the first time, Odin saw within a sharp face framed in dark hair a familiar pair of green eyes. For the barest fraction of a second, Odin had seen his brother Cul standing before him again as a young man.

Odin sighed, suddenly tired, and pinched the bridge of his nose with his spare hand. "I am trusting you to be the bearer of truth, and I don't know if that is even possible for you. Go forth and hear your missing voice, and report all you have learned to me by nightfall. Careful who speak to, lest you give yourself away."

"Oh, All-Father," Loki grinned as he stood, "I have no intention of speaking to anyone."

He moved to the windowsill and extended his arm to the ravens who perched there. After a confirming glance to Odin, Munin flapped his wings and alighted himself upon Loki's forearm, his talons clicking against the golden vambrace.

"Come, Old Masters," Loki whispered, "teach me to fly," and he stroked one finger over the silky feathers of Munin's head.

Minutes later, three ravens took flight from the guest quarters of the All-Father, the third a little unsteady, but improving in his grace. They flew together for a while, then the third broke away and descended to the trees below. He dropped into the canopy, landing soundly on a branch and trapping a songbird under his talons. It thrashed and flapped away as soon as the raven lifted his foot, and then there was no raven, but another little songbird.

This songbird hopped from tree to tree, watching as the Alfar tended their gardens and listening to their crooning voices. He perched upon windowsills and heard the whispered gossip of the women as they entwined breads and fruits into their delicate dishes. He pecked at a cat that came too close and, wrapped in black fur and padding on four paws, slipped through the gardens to the stream to watch as woven sheets were washed. He caught a fish and swam downstream into the river, gliding under boats. He swam too close to the surface, and was caught in the talons of an eagle and carried upward. It shrieked as its meal grew wings of his own and the two eagles, talons interlocked, spun about each other and fell before breaking free. The new eagle soared over deep forests far away where the men worked before landing and becoming the songbird once again. The day waned and the sun sank lower, and the songbird perched on the antler of a very confused deer. The mists rose and the stag ran alongside the Ljosalfar as they danced through the twilight.

As the stars began to set their lanterns in the night, an eagle soared back to the capitol on tired wings, but it was a raven, pitch black and alone, that flew into the window of the guest chambers of the All-Father.

 

Odin did not like secrets. He understood their necessity at times, but he didn't like them, and there was a secret here hidden under lies spun by certain influential Alfar. He was determined to uncover it, for this secret was anything but necessary. This secret could start a war, and Odin intended to avoid that. The Aesir were a warrior people, bred for battle and thriving on tales of war, but the Alfar, even the dark cousins of that race, were creatures of beauty and war amongst them was a tragic thing.

It was late when Odin finally retreated to his quarters. He was tired and frustrated, and not the only one. The conferences had been dragged out as long as possible, witnesses recalled and officials angrily repeating their findings. Let them get angry, the more they stood under Odin's eye the more frustrated and, more importantly, anxious they became. Good, Odin had noticed a few beginning to sweat. Even more noteworthy were the looks the inexperienced would shoot to their brethren on the sides, uncertain.

If there was one thing Odin disliked more than secrets it was politics, but that was a fate even he could not avoid. He was a warrior, a husband, a father, and in his own perfect world he would be happy with that alone, but he was also King of Asgard, highest of all realms and so by obligation custodian of all beneath on Yggdrasil. In this too was he happy, in a way, for he loved Asgard as dearly as his family. But Asgard, a people, a realm, was priority even over his beloved family and more often than not Odin found himself making decisions he would rather not, all in the name of politics.

Odin did not always like the decisions he had to make, but he could not regret making them. The only other option was to be crushed under the weight of his own guilt, and he could not do that.

For Asgard.

The room was dark, the moon hidden behind a cloud. Odin moved to the couch by the fireplace, waving a hand to light the fire, and nearly sat on Loki.

Once more an As, Loki slept soundly, undisturbed by Odin's grunt of surprise. The All-Father was certain Loki would claim he merely fell asleep waiting for Odin, though the confiscated blanket and pillow from the bed told otherwise. He slept like a child, always had as far as Odin could remember, on his side with his knees bent and arms tucked close to his chest. It was in these moments, gazing at a face unmarred by worry or irritation, that Odin was reminded just how _young_ Loki was, and so he'd been reminded near every night in his war tent on Jotunheim.

In the frozen wastes, even as an As Loki's Jotunn nature gave him greater tolerance to the cold than any of the Aesir, though this was negated by sheer ignorance of his Asa form. Odin had lay trust in his people to ensure Loki learned how to care for himself in the harsh environment, and while most had not betrayed this trust, there were a few who found great amusement in watching the irony of a Jotunn freezing to death. Loki, adaptable as he was, could not get over the idea that the home he'd always known was now dangerous to him very easily. His very beliefs denied it.

While the paternal aspect of the Jotunn religion encompassed the worship of their ancestors, more specifically the line of Kings all the way back to Ymir, the maternal embraced Jotunheim itself. The realm was the mother of the Jotnar, raising and sheltering them, only turning her ire on those who dared become careless, and her very heart, the Casket, lay in the hands of her children.

Both Loki's ignorance and his people's indifference were brought to the forefront of Odin's mind when, early in the days of their invasion, Loki literally stumbled into his tent, confused and slurring, his clothes damp beneath his cloaks. Worse, as Odin and several servants struggled to help him, Loki had instinctively tried to shift back to his natural state, the one that did not fear the cold.

"No! You will not change!" Odin shouted, shaking Loki roughly to hold his wilted focus, "It is your blood that cools, your Jotunn hide will only lock that cold in, we cannot help you then. Change and you die!"

Loki listened, and they managed to warm him again, but the hypothermia had nearly killed him and Odin was furious. Who of his people turned a blind eye as Loki stood shivering among them? Who had not reminded him to stay dry, or told him that, when as cold as he was, to stop shivering was _not_ a sign of improvement? Who watched their Jotunn ally stumble past, his death walking behind, and laughed?

The patrol with whom Loki had been out on reconnaissance earlier that day were brought forward and Odin made an example of them. They were at war, and he would not tolerate stupidity brought on by racial hate that would cause the loss of his own people. If there were any other problems with Loki after that, his men were quick to aid him. Regardless, Odin insisted he stay in the All-Father's own tent. Loki was royalty himself and deserved the benefits that came with that title, though Odin regretted the offer when Loki recovered, for his mood became so horrid that the Aesir King had been tempted more than once to toss him back to the Frost Giants himself.

Still, there was reprieve in sleep, and every night in that tent did Odin look upon Loki and find sorrow in his youth. He did so still, even on Alfheim, with the battles in the past and Asgard and Jotunheim both so far away. Exhausted from his shape-shifting, Loki barely twitched when Odin reached out to brush stray hair from his face.

It was in moments like these that the All-Father allowed his mind to wander. If he had known before of what Loki was and what his past had been, what actions could he have taken, if he should take them at all? Would his men have followed him to Jotunheim for the sake of one Jotunn runt? To take a sorcerer from Laufey's control, this they might have done, for many of his elder soldiers remembered the terror those Jotnar spun from their fingers, the threads of their magic nearly as final as those woven by the Norns.

But that would not have been Odin's only reason, it was not even his first, though it would satisfy the King within. No, to storm into the heart of that icy realm itself, to rescue a small babe from his own future, only that would sate the father in Odin. There his mind stumbled upon the questioned and, briefly, curled about it as smoke.

In place of a brother, what if there had been a son?

Would he, like Thor, have stood waiting for news of his father after battles? Would he have climbed into Odin arms and there cling to him, in sorrow and joy? Would he grow unafraid, so that he did not glance over his shoulders when he thought none looking? Would he still twitch and moan and cry out in his sleep?

Would it have made any difference at all to the boy's eventual fate?

There were no answers to these questions, so Odin banished the thought from his mind. Though there were those who could see past the veils that separated the parallel realms, he was not one of them and in the end, even if those answers could be found, they would have no impact in this time and place. Loki was his chosen brother, made of twists, turns, and many dark corners, and Odin would face that reality as need be.

And someday, so would Loki.

Odin's shoulders sagged with fatigue; it was going to be a long day tomorrow. He needed Loki's report to finish with the council, and then he had planned to make their journey to Svartalfheim. Unfortunately, the Alfar were quite insistent to send the Lord of the Nine Realms off 'properly' to counteract the dreariness of their darker cousins' realm. While Odin found the idea of a second feast and dance inappropriate under such circumstances, Freyr reminded him that the Ljosalfar were far less likely to declare war when their minds were kept from the deaths of their kinsmen, the offense at refusal besides.

Odin wondered when he had become a servant to decorum.

He removed his mantel and outer cote and draped them over the couch by Loki's feet. The disguised Jotunn chuffed in his throat, curling into himself without moving, and Odin sighed. A long, arduous day required a good night's rest and neither of them needed nightmares tonight. His fingers once more brushed across Loki's head, whisking away any dreams or stray memories that danced through Loki's thoughts and leaving nothing but heavy sleep in their gaps. Loki let out a slow breath and settled.

No dreams tonight, Odin reminded himself as he waved his hand to snuff out the fire he'd lit mere moments before. He moved to the bed and discarded his robes slowly, as though they were made of iron, and gratefully sank into an elven mattress that was often too soft for any As' liking.

 

"The people are unhappy."

"One would think," Odin said, stabbing Loki's hand with his fork when the Jotunn reached for the glistening cold meats on the plate, "the murder of their own by the Svartalfar would hardly make them sing in joy."

Loki rubbed his hand and glared. "That's not what I meant. They don't _want_ to go to war."

That caught Odin's attention. "Most on the council have said otherwise, and I believe them. The Alfar, both sides, have been chomping at the bit to destroy the other for longer than even my memory."

"That's what makes this so interesting," Loki said, a one-sided smile cracking upward towards his eye. He reached for the dish of meats as Odin chewed. "Did our friends in the council mention the relatively successful trade occurring between the two realms?"

"No, but Freyr would have told me."

"If he even knows. It's mostly done privately among the lower classes and the fact is they've become quite comfortable with the wealth and materials they receive. The Svartalfar are skilled smiths and cheaper than dwarves, I hear. War would stop the flow of goods and general discomfort trumps pride among those who care little for it."

Odin sat in thought, so perturbed by this news that he did not notice Loki lift the meat dish from the serving tray and move it to his own lap. His rampant shape-shifting had taken its toll and he was famished.

"The families that were slain," Odin mused, "were they involved in these quiet trades?"

Loki's arched eyebrows and soft but knowing "hmm" was answer enough.

 

The Aesir were a physical people, drawn to laying hands upon each other in friendliness or ill intent. Intensive though these touches were, they were brief; a slap on the arm or a firmly gripped shoulder. While Loki shied from such touch, the short duration of an As' hand upon him made it tolerable in most circumstances if he couldn't avoid it otherwise. (Although Loki cared little to who he offended in Asgard and blatantly brushed off any attempts at touch outside the immediate royal family.)

The Ljosalfar were the most tactile race in the realms. Long, soft touches were the norm among their kind, even with strangers, with close embraces and the press of lips means to both welcome and appreciate. Odin forewarned Loki of this, for he would not tolerate his brother insulting any of the Alfar officials with his rejections, intentionally or otherwise. Fortunately, the elders of the council were accustomed to working with those of other realms and knew to restrain themselves accordingly. Loki accepted the light touches of their fingers on his arms and hands with as much aplomb as one so far out of his element could muster. (Which was much, for what were politics but a show, and an actor but a self-convinced liar?)

It was after the feast, during the thrice-cursed dance on which the Alfar had insisted, when Loki finally lashed out.

The night began well enough; it was a pleasant meal and the Jotunn prince spent most of it scouring the plates for meat and bits of cheese. By the end, as full as he was going to get and relaxed, he began a slow, cautious conversation with a woman who wait patiently for him to construct his sentences. Odin glanced over in time to see her, smiling, reach out to touch Loki's face, and he instinctively jerked away. She withdrew and did not attempt to touch him again, but Loki's demeanor changed to wariness and he did not relax again.

The tables were cleared and the festivities began. While the courtly dances of the Ljosalfar lacked the ethereal beauty of their cavorts in the twilight, it was no less impressive to behold and Odin's mood improved. Loki's did not, for many young Alfar, so closely attuned to magic by nature, had gathered around him in curiosity. They had never seen a male sorcerer of Asgard before. Unlike their elders, the youth had little experience with those less sensate than themselves and could not comprehend another's discomfort in their caresses. There were too many hands and too many so close to him. Tense as he was, Loki held, though he began to unknowingly step backwards and he'd long lost track of any conversation.

A young man, nearly as tall as Loki and meaning nothing but to give the warm greeting of Alfar men, pressed himself to Loki's back, hands on his shoulders, and brushed his lips against the shell of Loki's ear.

The taut bowstring of Loki's restraint snapped, cracking over the heads of the gathering in a cry as he whirled, arm raised and hand open to strike.

Odin caught the blow before it landed and pulled Loki back.

"Excuse me, but I need to speak to my brother for a moment," Odin said to the stunned Alfr as if he were merely interrupting a pleasant rapport.

Loki pulled his arm free and the two walked side-by-side out of the hall into the cool night air. The walkway was open, its roof supported by pillars covered in ivy that draped from the eaves like curtains, whispering in the breeze. The only light came from the moon and that which spilled from the hall's windows and opened doors. When these shut and darkness bathed the two brothers in moonlight, the shock of his own reaction, coupled with residual tiredness from the previous day's shape-shifting, dissolved what composure Loki had regained and he slumped against the balustrade, trembling, one hand pressed to his mouth to hold back the rising bile.

Odin stood facing away, gazing out over the landscape painted blue in the moonlight and sipping casually from the goblet he'd carried out. Should anyone open the doors, he'd positioned himself in front of Loki to hide what the younger man would perceive his humiliation. Loki did not take signs of possible weakness well. But calm as he appeared, Odin's frustration roiled beneath the surface. It did not all stem from Loki, but his outburst, while not unexpected, was no less unacceptable. Loki's behavior hardly befitted that of a prince and future king and would only weaken his position in the long run if continued. Odin would have to be cruel to be kind.

"This," Odin began, not turning around, "will not stand. I cannot have you falling apart every time someone gets too close to you."

Loki spat the taste of sick from his mouth and straightened, his arms locked as he leaned upon the balustrade. "I don't-"

" _Loki!_ " Odin snapped, whirling upon his brother, and he could see Loki flinch at his tone. His voice was quieter as he continued but no less firm, "There are many things in these realms that seem intolerable, but your birthright requires you to tolerate them nonetheless. You will overcome this or I will dismiss you. You are not only useless to me like this, but to yourself as well, and there is no place for the useless at my side, understand?"

Loki dropped his head in a single nod, his knuckles white as he gripped the rail. Odin set his empty goblet beside him and could feel Loki vibrating. Despite all his bluster, Odin couldn't bring himself to send Loki back inside, and to be honest he himself had lost appetite for revelry. Slowly, he placed his hand on his brother's shoulder and while Loki tensed under his grip he did not move away.

"We have a long journey tomorrow. Will you join me for a drink before I retire?"

It was a thin ploy, one even little Thor would have seen through, but Loki accepted the proffered out. Opening the door, Odin caught the attention of the huskarlar who always remained near their king as well as a servant to remind the Aesir of their impending travel. He would not be in the mood to deal with the hung over in the morning.

The walk back to the guest quarters was a silent one, but beneficial as by the time Odin ushered him over the threshold Loki was calm again. With the fire lit and wine brought, the silence stretched into something comfortable. Loki sat apart from Odin, needing to regain his space, looking both too young and too old.

"Before Laufey attempted Midgard," Odin began, pouring himself a glass of wine, "did you have no experience with other realms?"

Loki raised his hand to decline the wine Odin offered him. There was that one journey he made alone to Midgard, with its bowl blue sky, too warm sun, and an old couple who'd dared face a monster, but that was no one's business, not even the All-Father's. "No, my father took me to Svartalfheim when I was a babe, but I do not remember it."

One pale eye looked at him, if not seeing the truth then knowing it was not there. It unnerved Loki how Odin always knew when he lied, but his brother did not press him.

"I remember that. I was not present, but it caused enough of an uproar, Laufey daring to lay any claim on Svartalfheim."

Loki leaned back on his seat and grinned; it did not reach his eyes. "I was always a disappointment to my father in all things."

"He was too stubborn to see what he had."

Loki sat up, poised like a snake ready to strike. "I have no need for your pity or flattery," he hissed.

"Good, because I have none to give you," Odin said, his voice soft but frank.

Loki sighed and rose to his feet, standing before the fireplace and watching the flames. "Besides, he knew all too well what he had," he muttered to himself bitterly.

Odin let him be for a moment, pouring himself more wine and waiting for his sometimes-skittish brother to speak again.

"Do not worry, Odin," Loki said, steering the conversation back to its beginnings, "I may be unfamiliar with the ways of the other realms but I will learn. I always do."

"I have no doubt, but that is not the reason I asked you."

"Oh?"

"The Casket of Ancient Winters is a powerful relic, the heart of Jotunheim and capable of transporting whole armies from one realm to another if so desired."

Loki gazed at Odin over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "Yes," he drew the word out slowly, "What of it?"

"Because of its power, only the Kings of Jotunheim have ever used it, and to transport such a burden from one world to another he must still know the realm's location among Yggdrasil."

"All this I know, Brother."

"Patience, I will make my point." Odin took a long drink. "I was made aware, some time ago, of monsters being sent from Jotunheim to Midgard by way of the Casket."

Loki tensed.

"What I could not comprehend was why Laufey went through the trouble of creating such monsters only to cast them away."

With a wry grin, Loki turned, filled a glass with the last of the wine and drank it in one swallow. "Apologies, but I am rather tired, and, as you've said, we have a long journey tomorrow. I will see you in the morning, Odin." He gave a mock bow and turned to leave.

"That was you, wasn't it?" Odin said softly, as if Loki had not spoken, "Were you trying to save them?"

Loki froze, his hand upon the door. When he looked over his shoulder at Odin it was again with a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"Goodnight, All-Father," he said, and then slipped out the door.

 

Loki had never seen a male Svartalfr before. In fact, aside from his mother, he'd never seen any Svartalfr that he could remember. He'd expected his mother's people to be like her in appearance: grey skin so pale it was nigh translucent, black hair, and eyes a solid obsidian that had always unnerved Laufey, for he could never tell whether or not she was looking straight at him. (Loki always knew.)

The Ljosalfar had all been similar in their visage. Creamy milk skin and hair the color of the sun and earth with bright eyes blessed them all. The Svartalfar, however, though lacking the same beauty, had far more variety. Some were pale like his mother, while others had skin black as pitch, and there was a range of varying shades of grey in between. Black hair was common, but even more so was white, and while many had the black eyes he knew so well, some had the white sclera with visible irises and pupils. These unnerved Loki, for he felt they did not belong on a Svartalfr face.

In the underground tunnels in which the Svartalfar made their home, there were few animals Loki could easily get his hands on, even if he so wished. He was half Svartalfr, and the changing into the form of one felt almost natural. He'd hoped to look like his mother, but the transferability of the spell made the grey shade of his skin closer to that of the blue of his natural form. His hair stayed black and his eyes were solid like his mother's. His face and form remained unchanged and that made him laugh a little. It was an unattractive face, but apparently quite universal.

(He wondered on the ease with which he had changed to a Svartalfr when the form of a true Jotunn was denied him. In the end he could only conclude that, despite his halfbred nature, he was born and raised of Jotunheim and had always considered himself without a doubt one of her children. He thought himself Jotunn, so when the spell was cast, he remained himself, for such things were reliant on perception as much as reality. Knowing this, he could now take such a Jotunn form if he wished, but found he no longer had the desire. He was Loki, and he would change that for no one.)

This time the Bifrost deposited the delegation on a barren world of black stone, the skies grey and overcast above, but no rain or water. There was no life on the surface of Svartalfheim, for all things lived below without the light of the sun. It was a full day's ride to the nearest entrance to the underground realm, and as darkness settled above the Aesir dismounted from their horses to lead them into deeper darkness below. Torches were lit, and Loki released small globes of light from his fingers to guide the way. They did not rest but traveled through the night. It was morning when they reached the city and, exhausted, they were all shown to the guest quarters within the palace. They would not sit in council until tomorrow, allowing the Aesir a day to rest and refresh themselves.

With a nod from Odin, Loki slipped away as the Aesir delegates settled in with food and drink, moving through shadows that understood and accommodated his skill. Cloaked in the form of a dark elf, he left the palace and walked through the city, listening to the voices around him and gazing at the wonders of his mother's homeland.

The Svartalfar were a people who could walk through walls and move through shadows, and their city reflected this. What were doors to those who could walk through them, gates to those who could bypass them in the dark? The center of the city and other main areas were built in large caverns with open streets and markets, but housing and private areas spread outward into endless mazes of tunnels. Smaller pathways were carved like ripples from the main avenues, but not physically connected to alleviate stress upon the supports holding miles of stone above. Where the walls between tunnels grew thinnest, alcoves of shadows had been built, allowing denizens to pass through to the desired way.

(While a Svartalfr could move through walls, a too thick barrier was impossible to pass through safely. Loki had caused himself a bit of a fright in his youth when he'd attempted it, and with each step the surrounding stone became oppressive and his steps heavy. His mother scold him afterwards and warned that he could have become trapped in the stone forever.)

Doors were not made to be opened. Constructed of neither wood nor stone, but of metal, no Alfr could pass through it like a wall. The doors were affixed at the front of the home and locked there, immovable. Doors were used by way of shadows, and for this reason open doors were kept in darkness for guests. Globes of enchanted fire were placed above both sides of the door, and to lock it, one needed only to light them to banish the shadows, allowing none access. Residential tunnels were lit for their entirety in this manner, that none would slip through the darkness into homes or upon the unexpected.

Odin should be glad to have one such as him at his side, Loki thought, for what good would an As spy be in this place of shadow and stone?

He did not speak to anyone, but moved about the city, ears open to the surrounding lilt of elven words; words he could understand with far more ease than before, even if his vocabulary was lacking. Fortunately, Loki was a friend to context and made due. His eyes too took in all, especially the many forges and smithies he passed, reading the elaborate writing above their doors.

Countless times his mother had called him to her, drawing her finger across the sandy floor of the antechamber of their home into letters. Over and over again she did this, until he remembered and could write them himself in his sleep.

"If ever you should get to Svartalfheim," she would say, "seek out this place, for it is the forge of my father."

It took time, and he nearly walked by he was so distracted by fire and shadow, but there it was. Like most smithies, there were no doors or alcoves, the forge was open, its heat spilling outward and the music of the smith at his task to fill the ears of all who passed. Loki read the sign again, as though unable to believe he stood before his own mother's history.

The Sons of Ivaldi.

He wondered absently who this Ivaldi was that his name should be so proudly displayed. Were the men within truly his sons or had the forge lived on to his descendants? Some wares had been placed near the entrance, a taste of what these Svartalfar were capable, and Loki could sense the enchantments emanating from them. Impressive works indeed, but the masters within seemed unexceptional, so Loki only remembered the forge's location and moved on. There was still much ground to cover, more voices to hear, and he was losing time.

 

The Svartalfar were just as tactile as their light cousins, though far more reserved on who received such affections. They welcomed the Aesir warmly but did not touch them, yet Loki observed that their hands were free amidst those with whom they were comfortable. He found this far more sensible.

But it was Malekith who stole most of his attention during the talks. His first look at the Svartalfr ruler made his eldritch blood rush and burn in his veins, something he'd never felt before but understood all too clearly. Here sat kin, one whose powers were beyond those of the Alfar and lay rooted in chaos.

How wonderful.

It was not a one-sided sense, for he found Malekith watching him from his mismatched face in turn, eyes bright with acknowledgement. This could only get more interesting.

Once again Odin led the proceedings and proofs and witnesses were brought forward. The Svartalfar remained indifferent and brisk until the All-Father spoke of the Ljosalfar's accusations and threats of war, only then did they rise impassioned and furious, demanding the blood of the murdering dogs who'd slain their kith and kin. They too were ready for war, and not even the combined will of the other realms would stop them.

Odin knew better. Loki, sitting beside him and looking amused, had once more brought word of the unwilling people more concerned with trade. They'd accumulated much wealth from the demands of their cousins, and received many rare goods in turn. Again, it was the metal smiths and their families who shared in this trade that were found slaughtered by Ljosalfr hands.

But not in their homes, as on Alfheim, but far away in blackened tunnels and then dragged back to their residences. They'd been found by the bloody trails left behind. Someone had wanted the victims found.

Some of the Aesir stood now, threatening the Svartalfar in kind, for the realms of Yggdrasil would not tolerate the Alfar of either world disturbing the peace.

And through all the yelling and accusations, Malekith sat upon his throne, his bi-colored face twisted and smug.


	14. Thor and Sif

“By Valhalla and all those within, child, go and _play!_ ”

Frigga thrust her son out into the corridor and with a light slap on his bottom sent him on his way. She’d allowed him to remain by her throughout the day, but after his fifth dramatic sigh of despair she’d had enough. Thor had found plenty to do before Loki had come into their lives and he could do so again.

Unfortunately, the stubborn boy did not want to.

It was not as if he didn’t know what to do with himself, there were many games his imagination could supply and his classmates to play with should he want them, it was that most of these had lost their allure. Loki was magic, both literally and (if Thor had known the word) metaphorically.

When Loki was in a playful mood it more than made up for his generally cranky nature. Thor and Loki would sit on the balcony at night and Loki would reach out and move aside nebulae and stars to get a peek at the pale blue dot that was Jotunheim as he told Thor of his home. He could reach up and pluck the moon itself from its place in the night sky, multiply it, and juggle them for Thor’s amusement before returning it to its dark perch.

Illusions all, Thor knew, but no less wondrous. What else in Asgard could compare to that?

Best of all, sometimes he would find Loki reading in the library or on the window seat in his room, and while Loki would sigh and roll his eyes in the image of suffering he would let Thor climb onto his lap and read to him until he fell asleep. It wasn’t fun, not like playing a game, but he loved listening to the cadence of Loki’s soft voice and the steady beat of his heart under Thor’s ear.

But it would be days at least until his father and Loki returned, perhaps longer if things did not go well with the Alfar. Thor sighed, so long and mournful that it echoed down the empty hall and followed him for hours until his first set of lessons.

Winter was behind them and the days were growing warmer, but very, very wet as Asgard’s rainy season settled in. Today was the first in many that Sol did more than peek through the heavy grey clouds, but thrust them aside entirely and bathed the shining city in her light. Steam had wafted from the roads and earth in the morning, but by the time Bragi ushered the children outside into the gardens the grass was dry. On days such as this he believed it a crime to keep children locked up indoors; the beauty of nature inspired the poetic mind more than any classroom ever could. It did require extra effort to settle his students, however.

Thor always enjoyed Bragi’s lessons. The old skald would tell grand epics of valor and victory, sweeping tales of love, and sorrowful tragedies that were not mere fancy but the history of the Aesir themselves. Again and again he would recite this wondrous poetry, that the young ones would memorize it, and yet he spoke in such a way that it never grew tiresome. At their age, any one of his students could tell these stories, but it was recounting of events only, not the flow of words that so inspired the Aesir to song and passion in the feasting halls. By the time the children reached these halls themselves, the poetry would be written into their very bones and they too could recite them with such reverence and power, as well as their own exploits as men and women.

“Remember, my little Lords and Ladies, that it is the spirit of the tale you must know. Speak in confidence, and do not fear the remembrance of every word. Use another, let the poetry fly living from your tongue, never to sour in your belly because you have forgotten a rhyme or phrase. That is a crime!”

Thor sat enraptured. He did not believe his strengths lay in words, but that did not mean he did not love them. What good was the glory of battle and the height of a man’s courage if no one could hear tell of it? Between the lesson and the warmth of the sun on his fair head, the moodiness Thor had gripped so tightly throughout the day slithered from his fingers and seeped into the dirt to be purified. What it left behind was a playful giddiness that matched Thor’s fellows in a desire to run and tumble about the lawn as soon as they were able.

That time came when Bragi finished his lesson and departed in the wake of the children’s well practiced and proper farewells. That trained manner impressed upon the children of the court by their elders dissolved as soon as Bragi was out of sight and they leapt on one another, squealing in delight and released energy. The girls separated from the group, their arms linked and swinging each other in gaiety and song, while the boys expressed their fondness for their friends by sitting on them and rubbing their faces in the dirt. Thor turned to the nearest boy, ready to leap into the fray, and instead got a palm in his face, a hand holding him where he stood and pushing so that he fell backwards onto his rump with an annoyed yelp.

“What? The mighty Prince Thor’s decided to grace us with his attention?”

Glowering, Thor pushed himself to his feet. He still had to crane his neck back to look up at the elder boy. “You dare speak so to the son of Odin, Arkin?” he said, trying to mimic the speech of his father.

Arkin was one of Thor’s cousins and the eldest of the students, though by very little. But the children were of the age where a mere season meant all the experience in the world and so many followed him in his endeavors. He flaunted that power when he could, and the opportunity to lord over the Prince of Asgard was too much to pass up.

“I dare,” Arkin declared, puffing out his chest and lifting his chin to exaggerate his height over the other boy, “because you don’t play with us. We’re not good enough, you’d rather go play with old Loki Lackeyson!”

Thor froze. No one called Loki by his patronym in Asagrd. The name of Laufeyson would reveal his origins and Odin wished those to remain hidden. No one knew save the royal family and a chosen few, but Arkin knew, and he mocked it.

The children had gathered around the two boys, their spinning and tumbling forgotten, and they laughed. Several girls linked arms and danced around singing “Lackeyson, Lackeyson,” while not knowing what it meant.

“Don’t call him that!” Thor shouted at them all, stomping his foot.

Arkin grinned down at him in triumph as the children continued to laugh. “We’re not supposed to know what Loki is, but I know, my father told me.”

A lump of ice fell into Thor’s stomach in the same instant his face grew hot. He clenched his hands into fists and began to shake. If people found out Loki was a Frost Giant, they might try to hurt him, maybe even kill him. From there, Thor’s thoughts launched from fear into the absurd, though he did not consider it so. Images of Loki being banished from the city, chased through the woods like a wild animal to be caught and skinned...

Loki’s bloodied head on a pike in the garden.

Arkin turned his back on Thor, smirking at him over his shoulder as he quieted the children again. “Want to know a secret?” he said to them, his voice hushed, and they huddled down close in excitement. “Loki’s not like us, he’s really a--”

Thor screamed and launched himself at Arkin, catching the older boy by surprise and slamming him to the ground. Arkin yelped and tried protecting the back of his head with his arms and Thor took advantage by jumping up and kicking him onto his back. Thor dropped back on him heavily, straddling his cousin and landing unforgiving blows to Arkin with his little fists.

While Arkin was older and taller, he was not very strong and none would ever call him brave. Had the fight remained between the two cousins, Thor would have easily come away the victor, but Arkin had allies and they all lunged for the prince at once, pulling him from his opponent and landing blows of their own. Arkin sat up, wiping blood from his nose with his sleeve and joined them. Outnumbered four to one, Thor fought on, kicking, punching, and biting once when someone made a fool grab for his face.

Then another body joined the battle, but against the bullies, fighting their way to Thor to aid him. Thor’s savior managed to relieve him of the boys’ attacks enough that the prince could focus his attentions on his cousin once more. The two fought valiantly against four and the remaining boys who stood aside leapt into the fray in the name of their prince.

It ended quickly then, with Arkin’s allies abandoning the battle and the instigator himself underneath Thor’s little boot. Facing his cousin’s wrath alone, Arkin yielded. Thor stepped off him, but did not help him stand so that he continued to tower over his elder cousin.

“You,” Thor began, his voice as deep and powerful as he could make it, “will never speak ill against Loki again, who is the All-Father’s brother and a hero of Jotunheim! None of you!” he shouted, turning to the others as well. “And you, Arkin, will not speak of him at all, you are not worthy to even say his name!”

Arkin sniffed and wiped more blood from his face. When he did not reply promptly, Thor kicked him.

“I will not speak of him!” Arkin yelped.

Satisfied, Thor dismissed him with a wave of his hand, much as he had seen his father do, and Arkin slinked away after his allies.

Thor looked to the others of his class and frowned. They had come to his aid only after the tide of the battle had changed, like cowards, and they knew it. The children began to disperse, finding elsewhere to play and Thor had no desire to follow them anymore. Only a girl remained, staring at him as he brooded. It was Sif, the half-sister of all-seeing Heimdall.

“Sif,” Thor said, realizing she was not going away, “can you tell me the boy who was brave enough to help me?”

“There was no boy,” she said, confused.

“Of course there was! I didn’t defeat Arkin and his friends alone, did I? Someone helped me now tell me his name!”

Sif huffed, hands on her hips in anger. “It was me, you dolt!”

Thor almost laughed at such a ridiculous idea, but the very state of her said otherwise. Sif’s shift was torn, covered in dirt and grass stains, and her golden hair was wild. She stood not like a little maiden, but with her feet planted wide in readiness, and her knuckles were bloody and split from the force of her own punches.

Instead, Thor’s mouth fell open in a fashion his mother always told him was rude. “You?”

“Yes, me! I am no coward.”

“But…you’re a _girl!_ ”

Sif’s face twisted in a very un-ladylike manner. “That doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”

Actually, as far as Thor was concerned, that was exactly what it meant. But Thor was the son of wise Odin, who had often instructed his son on the dangers of being inflexible, both on the battlefield and off. Thor was also the pupil of Loki, who said the same thing but with more eye rolling.

Well, alright then.

“Thank you, Sif. You have helped me and I won’t forget it.”

She shrugged and kicked a rock, trying to hide her smile. “Someone needed to give Arkin the beating he deserved.”

Thor nodded but said nothing. A long moment passed as the two awkward children stood across from one another, Thor staring after the others with whom he no longer wished to play. Their offense would be forgotten by tomorrow and they would cheer for Thor, the prince who stood against Arkin, and he would accept it. But for now he was alone again, save brave Sif who fought like a boy.

Chewing at his thumb in hesitation, Thor asked, “Do you want to play with me?”

Sif beamed so radiantly that her smile outshone even the beautiful gold of her hair and the two children dashed off into the garden together.

 

“You want to be a _warrior?_ ”

“I don’t see why not. You get to be, and you’re no bigger than I am.”

“But you’re a girl!”

“That’s all I hear, over and over, but why does that _matter?_ ”

“Because…” Thor began and then realized he had nothing more to say. Whatever reasons there were for keeping women from the battlefield were as yet beyond his ken, so he did not consider they could exist at all. He said nothing more, and the silence fell into the space between them.

Sif and Thor had chased each other through the gardens, tumbling into the grass when Sif proved the faster. They stayed there, sprawled out and watching clouds drift overhead to dissipate at the edge of Asgard beyond their sight.

“I hear that all the time too. ‘Because’ and ‘it’s tradition.’” Sif said bitterly, crossing her arms over her chest in childish indignation, “I think they’re lying. They just don’t want me to, because they think I can’t. There really isn’t a reason.”

Thor believed that tradition was reason enough, he was taught of its importance often. Yet both his father and his tutors had stressed to him about the folly of blindly following old traditions for their sake alone. It hindered change, which was necessary for growth. ‘Stagnation,’ Loki had called it.

“You’re right,” Thor said.

Sif turned her head and stared at him. “Really?”

“Yes. There’s no reason you can’t be a warrior if you’re proven capable, and you already proved that to me today. Think of it! Lady Sif, Warrior of Asgard!” Thor cried, tossing his hands into the air.

Absently tucking a lock of hair into her mouth, Sif looked up into the clouds, her eyes drifting as though it was the first time she truly did imagine it. Her mouth twitched upward into a smile, only to fade as reality reasserted itself.

“It doesn’t matter, I’m not allowed in warrior school. Punching bullies isn’t enough when fighting against a Jotunn.”

A Jotunn.

Thor sat up, a sudden idea flushing him with excitement. “I know! You can train with me and Loki!”

Sif looked at Thor as if he were a loon. “Loki?”

“Yes! He’s teaching me to _focus_ and alterna…alter-native ways to fight. When he’s not busy, that is. But I’m sure he’ll be happy to teach you too! It’s fun, he’s really funny sometimes.” Thor stopped and thought about that a minute, then leaned in close and whispered, “You have to _get_ his humor, though.”

“Loki’s the slinky one, right?”

“ _Slinky?_ ”

Sif sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees, chewing her hair. It was the most vulnerable Thor had ever seen her, as if she had been carrying a shield forever and was only now lowering it enough for him to peek over. A girl who wanted to be a warrior couldn’t afford such a display.

“I don’t think it’s allowed…”

“It doesn’t matter,” Thor puffed out his chest and lifted his chin in pride, “Loki answers only to my father! He won’t care what the school says.”

Sif spat out her hair, choosing to tug on the damp lock instead. “All right.”

Thor nodded, problem solved, and slumped back into the grass, arms folded behind his head. “And when I’m King of Asgard, you’ll be one of my mightiest warriors, and nobody can say _anything_ against it.”

Smiling, Sif flopped back into the grass with him, wriggling into a place of comfort that just happened to be a little closer to the prince.

“Thor?”

“Yes?”

“Can we be friends?”

It was Thor’s turn to smile, and he reached over and took Sif’s hand, swinging it upward. “Never shall there be two such as we!”

“Thor and Sif, defeaters of bullies, wherever they may hide!” Sif cried.

Their laughter echoed throughout the garden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really understand children (I fear them) so this chapter was difficult to write. Please let me know if the kids can be written better.
> 
> My endless thanks to everyone who is reading this. Your comments are magnificent and keep me going. I know the updates are coming slowly, but I will not abandon this story.


End file.
